


Love and Other Drugs

by starkercrossedlovers



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Bisexual Peter Parker, Blow Jobs, Depression, Drinking, Drinking to Cope, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, HIV/AIDS, HIV/AIDS Crisis, Homophobic Language, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, Hurt James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Hurt Tony Stark, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Iron Man 1, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark Friendship, Journalist Peter Parker, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Maria Stark's Good Parenting, Minor Carol Danvers/James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Multi, Past Child Abuse, Past Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Pepper Potts & Tony Stark Friendship, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Pepper Potts, Self-Harm, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Torture, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:21:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 86,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23513827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkercrossedlovers/pseuds/starkercrossedlovers
Summary: It’s 1985, the height of the AIDS crisis and Peter Parker is a young, disillusioned journalist for the Bugle, trying to write stories about the men and women dying from AIDS, but all his editor seems to care about is who Tony Stark is sleeping with this week, and all Tony Stark seems to care about is selling more weapons. With evidence of black market arms dealing, Peter sets out to find the truth and destroy the Stark name—a much harder task when the man in question is kidnapped by the very terrorist who have been using his weapons.The billionaire returns a changed man, and finds himself turning to an unexpected source for help—Peter Parker. Together they search for the truth behind Tony’s kidnapping and in the process, discover each other.
Relationships: Carol Danvers/James "Rhodey" Rhodes, James "Bucky" Barnes/Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, Michelle Jones/Pepper Potts, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 28
Kudos: 69





	1. Fortunate Son

**Author's Note:**

> In which we learn about Peter Parker and his journalistic ideals, meet Tony Stark for the first time, and things start to go sideways.

_There’s an acrid scent in the back of his throat, thick and smoky and if he didn’t know better, hadn’t seen the bodies he’d think it’s just cooking meat, that someone is making dinner nearby. But he does know better, and though his stomach says_ **_food_ ** _his mind screams_ **_death_ ** _._

_“They came and destroyed our home, for no reason! My children and I barely survived these monsters. Who is going to stop these men?”_

_Peter nods as the translator speaks, horror welling within him at the stories he’s heard over and over again from the refugees running from the destruction wrought by the Ten Rings. The village they stand in is bombed to rubble, the bodies of those unfortunate enough not to make it out in time torn to pieces and left to rot, the lingering stench of death in the air makes him burn with impotent rage._

_There’s very little he can do to get these people justice; he uses his photos to show the world what’s happening in Gulmira and other places no one’s heard of or cares about and they turn away, again and again._

_The translator is still talking and he tunes back in when he hears, “Stark. This name is on all the weapons that they use. We have heard of this man, he is very powerful. Does he know how his weapons are being used? Does he know they bring death to children? Does he care?”_

_Peter chokes on his promise to bring their stories to the West, to make them hear and see, because he knows that there aren’t enough pictures in the universe to make people care about what’s happening a world away from their comfy lives. When he gets back to his hotel room and calls his editor, he’s told in no uncertain terms to leave the story alone without more evidence. They’re not going to destroy a man’s reputation whose contributions to the paper make up ⅓ of the budget._

_He vomits, the bitter taste of it coating his tongue and then opens one of the too expensive mini liquor bottles in his fridge, drinks all of it and passes out, nightmares plagued by bodies of children torn to pieces, screams for help, smoke choking him till he wakes, coated in sweat and unable to sleep again._

_Bitter resentment fills him when he’s ordered back to the US, but he carries the photos and stories he’s recorded with him, storing them in a safe at home, quietly hunting down leads on Stark Industries and the weapons that have ended up in the wrong hands._

_He’s not giving up on the truth._

* * *

“It’s not a story kid, no one cares about junkies and fags dying because of the filthy way they live.”

Peter stares at his editor, eyes wide behind his horn rimmed glasses, disgust rising like bile in the back of his throat at the casual way the other man denigrates the men and women dying slow, painful deaths from AIDS.

“It _is_ a story,” Peter finally manages to respond, trying to keep his voice level despite his frustration, “because the government _knows_ how lethal this disease is and they aren’t warning people or telling them how to avoid it. They’re letting people die because they think homosexuality is a sin and want to use this epidemic as some kind of biblical example of God’s wrath for their actions.”

Peter should know better than to argue the point with Mr. Jameson—he’s a notorious hardass and blatantly homophobic, so getting this story into the paper was basically a no-go right from the start, but he can’t keep quiet anymore, can’t keep seeing his friends wither away and die. No one else is reporting on the AIDS crisis except in broad strokes that fail to capture the grim realities that the people on the streets living their everyday lives are facing, and Peter’s certain that he has a good story, if someone would just publish it.

“I don’t care about the government Parker, this paper doesn’t promote homosexual behavior and that’s final.”

Jameson glares at him from behind bushy brows, lips pressed into a firm line, and Peter knows if he keeps pushing the issue he’ll wind up jobless. With the taste of bitter regret in his mouth, he nods and rises from the worn tweed seat, “Thank you for your time sir,” he murmurs, the words like poison in his mouth. He’s ashamed of how quickly he gave up, but he knows if he doesn’t keep his head down, he’ll make himself even more of a target for Jameson’s ire.

Jameson nods and waves a hand in an annoyed shooing motion, “Go get me pictures of something we can print. Find which socialite Stark has stumbled into tits first or something.”

Peter nods and gives him a brittle smile, “Yes sir,” he mutters, slinking away with bowed shoulders and despair weighing down his heart. Too many of his friends have contracted AIDS, too many are missing every week from the bars and clubs, too many are dying, unrecognized and forgotten like so much trash in the street and all he wants to do is help.

Collapsing back into his hard wooden chair, he slumps against the desk, head in his hands as he tries to fight back tears of frustration. He wants to do more, wants to make someone pay attention, and it feels like he’s screaming into a void, invisible and powerless.

“Hey Peter, meeting with JJ not go well?”

A soft hand lands on the back of his neck, warm and comforting, and when he looks up from between his fingers, he smiles tiredly at MJ, hands slipping from his face as he sighs and leans into her touch, head aching.

“About as well as can be expected,” he mutters, “told me the paper doesn’t promote homosexual behavior and to go find out which socialite Tony Stark has seduced this week.”

Snorting, MJ shakes her head and leans a hip on his desk, brows rising slightly, “Wanna get drinks with Ned and I after work? We can bitch about what a fuck face JJ is,” she offers, smirking when Peter smiles tiredly and shakes his head, giving her an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, I’m going to May’s to check on her after work. She’s doing better but,” he hesitates and shakes his head, “things are still hard for her.”

MJ makes a soft sympathetic noise, hand on his shoulder squeezing gently, “If you need anything just ask, okay?” she tells him gently. Most people think MJ is a cold, unfriendly woman, but Peter knows it’s just a front that she uses to protect herself from the prejudice that often keeps a black woman from the newsroom in any capacity other than someone there to mop the floors and make coffee.

If her father wasn’t a big name in construction for the city, Peter’s pretty sure she wouldn’t have made it as far as she has, despite the fact that she’s more brilliant than all twelve other reporters on staff at the Bugle. Peter would bet every dollar he has that if given better stories to chase, she’d be a contender for a Pulitzer.

She’s one of a very small group of people who knows he’s bisexual, and he’s the first person she had told when she realized she was demisexual . She’s been his friend for years and his only confidant at the paper, both of them outsiders in an industry geared to straight white men. Quite honestly, he’s not sure if he’d have stuck around as long as he has without MJ there to encourage him and tell him to suck it up when he needed it.

A rush of gratitude for her fills him and he nods and reaches up, gives the hand on his shoulder a squeeze, “Thanks MJ,” he murmurs gratefully.

He looks around the newsroom at where the others are typing or on the phone and makes a decision. He’s not going to sit here and mope, he’s going to go out and find a goddamn story.

Grabbing his camera, he gives MJ a parting smile, “Seeya later,” he murmurs and throws his jacket over his shoulder, finger hooked in the tag. Clattering down the stairs, he ignores the trio of men at the bottom, laughing and smoking. His stomach drops at the sight of Flash, praying he can get by without the other man noticing him...

“Hey! Penis Parker! Where you off to in such a rush?”

Peter heaves a sigh and grimaces at Flash, “To do my job, Flash, not that you’d understand what real work is,” he snaps, pushing past him and stumbling out into the street when a rough hand at his back shoves him. Biting back a torrent of hot words, he hurries down the street, already sweating in the muggy May air that has descended on the city.

Blacktop shimmers beneath his feet and he wipes at his brow, thinking longingly of the air conditioning in the office. He hopes that the rain the weathermen have been promising will come tonight--his apartment is always too hot in the summer, and with the heat arriving early, he’s already suffering.

Three blocks from the office he stop at a payphone and fumbles for change until he has enough, rocking onto his toes nervously as it rings and goes to his voicemail box. His number is publicly listed, and he gets some crank calls, but sometimes he gets tips, and it seems this time one of his more infrequent callers has left him something to follow up on.

“ _Parker_ ,” there’s a moment of silence before the man sighs heavily, “ _He’s going to Iraq to do a weapons demonstration for the military. It’s called the Jericho_. _Leaves tonight at midnight_.” There’s a muffled noise like someone in the background is talking, but he can’t make out anything.

“ _I’m not saying you’ll see him at JFK at midnight at the private terminal, but it’s possible._ ”

Peter grins and leans against the hot metal of the phone booth; this is his chance to get something other than some gossip rag bullshit about who Tony Stark is sleeping with. Whoever the caller is--he’s muffled his voice every time he’s called, so Peter can’t identify him--has handed him yet another solid tip.

“ _Shit, Tony is here and making a fuss about some shit._ ”

At the name of the man known worldwide as the CEO of Stark Industries he pauses, thinking of the tips he’s gotten about the weapons from SI that have ended up in the wrong hands, terrorist’s hands that have caused widespread death and destruction. All of his research is back at his apartment, so he’ll have to head back and grab it if he wants to use this chance to confront Tony.

The buzzing of the empty line cuts off his line of thought and he grins again at the tip he’s received, elation swelling within him, his earlier annoyance slipping away with the possibility of a lead. He hangs up and grabs his change, shoves it in his pocket where it rattles and shifts as he steps out of the booth.

Glancing at his watch, he figures he has just enough time to run to his apartment before he drops by May’s house for a visit and then get over to the airport and talk his way in. Slinging his jacket over his arm, he hurries down the street, the muggy air making sweat bead on his brow and his shirt stick uncomfortably to his back.

Maybe he’ll finally get the chance to get Stark on record about what’s going on with his company.

Maybe he’ll finally get the truth.

* * *

He manages to get through security to the private terminal--one of his sources works in security and for a few bucks lets him slip on through. The payment means he won’t be taking the metro home like he had planned, but if it gets him what he’s looking for, it’s worth every penny.

Tucked behind a pillar, he checks the settings on his camera and waits, checking his watch every few minutes, sure that it’s too late, that he’s somehow missed the departure of the billionaire, but sure enough, it’s only 11:30pm and the private jet on the runway is painted with bold red lettering that reads STARK.

Soon enough a dark town car rolls up, and after a moment to let the occupants get out of the car he feels a rush of vindication--it’s Tony Stark and his security, one Happy Hogan. Taking a deep breath and turning on his recording device, he hurries over, jaw set in determination.

“Mr. Stark! I’m Peter Parker from the Daily Bugle, can I ask you a few questions before you leave?” he calls, watching as the man’s head pops up, swivels around to find him, eyes narrowing as Peter gets closer. Happy lunges between them, glaring and holding out a hand.

“Get back kid. No comment.”

Peter nods at Happy--they’ve run into each other before when he’s tried to get a comment from Stark, but he tries to be less aggressive than some other reporters that hound the billionaire day and night. Quite frankly, Peter doesn’t give a shit who the man sleeps with, unlike his editor and half of New York--he’s more interested in the goings on of his company and their continued weapons manufacturing.

“Mr. Stark, what do you know about the Ten Rings?” he asks, “Have you heard about the attacks in Gulmira?”

Stark pauses and stares at him, this time like he’s trying to place Peter’s face, brow furrowing as he studies Peter. “I’ve met you before,” he says instead of answering the questions.

“Yea, I was at your father’s funeral with my uncle. Ben. He worked for your father in warehouse security. Your father was the only one who would give him a job--believed in him when most other people wouldn’t even consider hiring a Vietnam vet.”

Stark nods slowly, gaze considering as it sweeps over him and Peter has a momentary flash of shame; he’s dressed in a suit that’s too big--one of Ben’s--sweat stained and dusty from his time walking the streets, and in comparison to the man before him, looks positively bedraggled. The older man’s lips quirk and he nods again, “Well, then Mr. Parker, ask your questions,” he says, taking Peter by surprise.

He swallows around a mouth full of nervous saliva, nods. “Right. What do you know about the Ten Rings or the attacks in Gulmira?”

Stark shakes his head almost immediately, “I’ve never heard of them, and I don’t know where that is. Why?”

Peter fumbles out one of the pictures he’d taken in Gulmira; rubble is the only thing left of a home and sticking out of it is a tiny hand, easily mistaken for a doll, but the lifeless pale whitish blue color of it reveals it for what it is. In the remains of the home is a piece of metal with familiar red lettering and when he hands it over, he watches the man’s reaction carefully.

Stark’s dark brows furrow, lines appear around his mouth, and a moment later he removes his tinted sunglasses, mouth turning down as he glances between the photo and Peter. “Where did you get this?” he asks softly.

“I took it. In Gulmira. That’s a fragment from one of your weapons, isn’t it?” he asks, the rush of excitement and nerves he always gets when he’s on the hunt for a story rising within him.

“That’s what it looks like, but I don’t have any knowledge of my weapons being used in someplace called Gulmira,” Stark says, shaking his head, “There must be some mistake.” He holds the picture out to Peter, jaw set, a steely look in his gaze. Peter stares at him in disbelief and steps closer, halting when Happy shakes his head and edges between them further.

“Mr. Stark that isn’t a mistake. People are being killed by your weapons. Children. Families. Your weapons are being used by terrorists. Do you care at all about that?” he demands, fury blooming in him like a crimson wave. He shoves the other pictures he’s brought with him at the man, “Look, _look_ at them,” he demands, shaking the pictures impatiently when Stark doesn’t reach out and take them.

“Look, kid, weapons end up in the wrong hands sometimes. If these terrorists have them it’s because they stole them from a base or something. We don’t sell to terrorists.”

“Just to the military--what a difference,” Peter scoffs bitterly.

Stark’s shoulders roll and a look of discomfort passes over his face, “Listen, kid, I believe you that something happened, that somehow my weapons ended up in the wrong place and people got hurt, but I can’t be held accountable for someone else’s actions. I guarantee you the day weapons are no longer needed to keep the peace, we'll start making bricks and beams for baby hospitals.”

Peter stares at him in disbelief, “Is that what you have to tell yourself to get to sleep at night?” he hisses, stepping forward involuntarily. “That it’s not your fault, that it doesn’t matter because you’re making money and screw the little guy and his family being blown apart during dinner,” he spits, glaring up at Stark, disgust rippling through him.

Stark frowns and waves a hand, “My old man had a philosophy: "Peace means having a bigger stick than the other guy,” he says dryly and Peter, Peter sees red.

“That's a great line, coming from a guy selling the sticks,” he snaps, seething with anger.

“My father helped defeat Nazis. He worked on the Manhattan Project. A lot of people, including your Uncle, would call that being a hero.”

Peter wants to punch this man so badly he’s shaking. “And a lot of people would also call that war-profiteering,” he hisses. “What a fucking coward.”

The older man visibly flinches and takes a step back, as though he’s been hit physically and Peter scoffs, shaking his head as Happy pushes him back a step. “I can’t believe my uncle admired you or your father. A whole family of cowards and murderers. You deserve what they call you, you know. Merchant of Death,” he jeers, contempt in every word.

“Okay, time to go kid,” Happy growls, meaty hand landing on his shoulder, gripping too tight as he pushes him back. Peter tosses the rest of the pictures at Stark’s feet--he has more copies at home.

“Here, look at their faces--they’re _your_ victims, you should know who you’re murdering with your apathy.”

Happy shoves him again and he lifts his hands in surrender, backs away before he turns and walks away, so angry he can barely see straight.

It’s only as he’s crossing the street three blocks later that he realizes he’s clenched his hands so tight his nails have cut into the skin of his palms. With a shaky exhale he unclenches them and shoves them into his pockets, head down as he walks, rage and disbelief leaving him shaky.

It doesn’t matter how far he has to walk, how many leads he has to run down, he’s going to get the truth. He’s going to rip the mask off Tony Stark and reveal him for the man he is and make him regret that moniker he’s so proudly worn. The Merchant of Death is going to have his empire torn to the ground if Peter has anything to say about it.

Thunder rumbles in the distance and Peter smiles, slow and sharp; there’s a storm coming and he can’t wait to see the rain.


	2. Back in Black

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony Stark feels guilty, makes a sales pitch, and everything goes wrong.

Tony stares at the pictures the kid had thrown at him the whole flight, mind working over the possibilities, over and over again. He hears the accusations thrown at him; _murderer, coward, Merchant of Death_ , and it’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, but the rage and disappointment in those wide, whiskey eyes haunts him, has him rolling his shoulders, trying to shake the guilt that’s gnawing at his stomach.

“Boss, forget it. He’s a kid, he doesn’t understand how the world works.”

He nods numbly, even as he thinks, _that’s not right_ , because the kid had said, _Your father was the only one who would give him a job--believed in him when most other people wouldn’t even consider hiring a Vietnam vet._ The kid’s uncle was a vet, and he’d said that he’d taken the pictures, which meant he knew up close and personal the costs of war and terrorism.

With an exhausted sigh, he scrubs a hand over his eyes and shakes his head--he needs a drink to wash this bitter taste out of his mouth. He waves a hand and one of the flight attendants hurries over, a flirty smile on her face as she bends over, offering him a view of her spectacular cleavage. “What can I do for you Mr. Stark?” she murmurs, voice low and suggestive.

He considers the unspoken offer and glances over at Happy, “I need a drink. Double whiskey on the rocks, and keep em comin,” he mutters, leaning back in his seat with a heavy sigh.

The woman hesitates for a moment, smile faltering, “Anything _else_?” she murmurs, giving him a sidelong smile.

She’s pretty, he thinks, exactly what he usually goes for--and maybe that’s exactly why he doesn’t want it right now, because all he can see are large, wounded whiskey colored eyes, accusing him.

“No, just the drink,” he replies, waving a hand to dismiss her. She goes with a disgruntled look over her shoulder at him and he thinks that by morning she’ll be happy he didn’t take her up on the offer--not many women (or men) are happy with a lover who can’t even remember their name in the morning.

He takes the drink she hands him with a nod, drinks it too fast and quickly finds another in his hand. He loses himself in the burn of alcohol and the haze of guilt and shame he’s acutely familiar with, head lolling back against the seat as his lids grow heavier and heavier.

Visions of bombs and screaming children fill his nightmares and he wakes with a jolt as the landing gear lowers, sweat clinging to his skin grossly. Grimacing, he heads to the bathroom and changes into a cleaner shirt, runs wet fingers through his hair and slides on a pair of tinted glasses, studying his reflection for a moment before turning away--he doesn’t want to look at himself right now.

He snorts a line of cocaine off the back of his hand, shuddering as it hits his bloodstream. The little bump will be enough to get him through this demonstration and keep him up until he can get back on the plane and have another drink.

When he steps outside his trademark smile is in place, his mask perfected over decades keeping his true emotions and thoughts well hidden.

_Thanks dad_ he thinks bitterly, nodding as he shakes hands with a covey of Generals both American and Iraqi.

It’s time for the Merchant of Death to do what he does best--sell more death.

* * *

“Is it better to be feared or respected?” Tony says to the group of men gathered before him. He’s in the zone now, this kabuki theater well rehearsed after years in the public eye and too many demonstrations for him to remember. “Well I say, is it too much to ask for both?”

Sauntering over to the missile launcher, he lays a hand on the warm metal, “With that in mind, I humbly present the crown jewel of the Stark Industries Freedom line. It's the first missile system to incorporate our proprietary repulsor technology.”

Grinning at the crowd, he taps his fingers on the metal and listens to it ring dully. “They say the best weapon is one you never have to fire. I respectfully disagree. I prefer the weapon you only have to fire _once_. That's how dad did it, that's how America does it... and it's worked out pretty well so far. Find an excuse to let one of these off the chain, and I personally guarantee you the bad guys won't even want to come out of their caves. For your consideration, the Jericho.”

He presses the button and spreads his arms, waiting for the explosion behind him. Dust and wind rush past him, ruffling his clothes and layering a fine film of sand on his skin. _Christ_ , he hates the desert. There’s applause and then the men in uniform are pressing their hands to his, questioning how many they can get, as soon as possible.

He grins over at his best friend, winking when Rhodey gives him a wry eye roll, knowing it’s well intentioned mockery of his over the top sales pitch. He leaves the men behind, stepping towards the Humvee as his satellite phone rings.

“Tony”

He grins at the voice of his mentor and father figure, “Obie, what are you doing up?” he asks, pacing slowly, staring down at where his shoes sink into the sand.

“I couldn't sleep till I found out how it went. How did it go?”

“Went great, looks like it's gonna be an early Christmas,” he jokes, watching as Rhodey calmly answers questions from the Generals.

“Hey, way to go, my boy. I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yea, see you tomorrow,” he murmurs, mind already moving on to other things, circling back to the photos the kid had given him, the images all that fresher after seeing his Jericho demonstration. If terrorists were getting their hands on the weapons somehow, he needed to figure out how.

“Hey, you ready to head back?”

He looks up and finds Rhodey waiting at his side, the familiarity of his face pulling Tony from the spiraling headspace he was in and back to the present. Nodding, he lays a hand on Rhodey’s arm and steps closer, ignoring the way Rhodey’s brows furrow in confusion. “Listen, I need to talk to you about something SI related when we’re back at base. Fly back with me?” he asks softly, studying the face of his oldest--and if he’s honest with himself--only, friend.

Rhodey nods slowly, “Yea, sure Tones. What’s up?”

Toney shakes his head and glances back at the Generals, gut curling unpleasantly. “Not here,” he whispers, shooting the men a painfully fake smile and a hand wave. Looking back into the face of his friend, he lets his mask drop just enough to show Rhodey his fear. “It’s not safe.”

He knows how that sounds, paranoid and eccentric, just like people say he is, but after two decades of friendship, Rhodey has the best Stark-bullshit meter out there, so he’ll know that Tony’s not playing around this time. Brows furrowing, Rhodey nods slowly, eyes flickering over to the men assembled behind them, understanding of some sort passing over his face.

“Yea, course Tones. I’ll see you back at base,” he murmurs reassuringly, patting Tony’s shoulder firmly.

Tony’s grateful for the touch, steadying him as the coke wanes in his system and he starts to crash, heading for a long dark episode if the ugly, slimy sensation writhing in his skull is any indicator.

He climbs gratefully into the Humvee, reaching for the cooler with his glass and whiskey, eagerly pouring one out while the soldiers around him watch through side long glances.

He should probably care more about what they think, but it’s a stretch for him right now. All he can think of is the destruction he just wrought in the middle of the Iraqi desert and the fact that somewhere out there his weapons are being used to murder innocent people.

He gets lost in thought for awhile, barely paying attention to the road ahead or the music playing from the tape deck. It’s only when he realizes his foot is tapping along to Back in Black that he pulls himself out of his dark thoughts and gives the soldiers around him one of his trademark smiles.

“I feel like you're driving me to court martial. This is crazy. What did I do? I feel like you're gonna pull over and snuff me,” he jokes, grinning when the soldier across from him twitches and smirks. “What, you're not allowed to talk? Hey, Forest…”

“We can talk, sir,” the man replies, sounding uncertain.

“Oh, I see. So it's personal?” he snarks, grinning when the kid pales.

“No, you intimidate them,” a voice from the front calls and he looks up in surprise at the humor in that warm voice, the inherent teasing and mockery appealing to his own sense of humor.

“Dear God, you're a woman! I honestly, I couldn't have called that. I mean, I would apologize, but isn't that what we're going for here? I thought of you as a soldier first,” he blathers, leaning forward a bit to study the woman’s face as the soldiers laugh and the air in the Humvee lightens.

“I'm an airman,” the woman chides lightly, lifting her brows at him in the rear view mirror and a spark of interest runs through him.

“Well you have actually excellent bone structure there. I'm kinda... having a hard time not looking at you now. Is that weird?” he asks playfully, “C'mon, it's OK, laugh,” he encourages, hoping that these kids aren’t going to be facing battle anytime soon. They all look like they’re fresh out of high school, still too young to face the horrors of the world.

One of the kids across from him lifts a hand and Tony grins at him, “Hey!”

“Sir, I have a question to ask.”

“Yes, please.”

“It is true you went 12-for-12 with last year's Maxim cover models?”

The men in the vehicle erupt into laughter, grinning and sharing lascivious looks as the woman behind the wheel rolls her eyes. They share a look and he realizes with a start that she’s older than these kids, maybe is even their commanding officer, and he feels a momentary flash of guilt for sexualizing her in front of the men.

He knows it’s hard enough being a woman, but being one in charge in an organization that’s historically male and vehemently against change?

His respect for her levels up a notch and he nods at her before turning his gaze back to the kids. “That is an excellent question. Yes and no. March and I had a scheduling conflict, but fortunately the Christmas cover was twins.”

The men heap praise on him and he feels guilt burn into him; they have no idea how much he does just to keep up this public facade, how many nameless, faceless people he’s fucked to maintain his carefree image. “Anything else?” he asks, grinning when one of the soldiers raised a hand like they’re in school.

“You're kidding me with a hand up, right?” he says with a laugh.

The kid flushes and lifts a disposable Kodak, “Is it cool if I take a picture with you?”

His heart lurches a little and he nods, “Yes, it's very cool,” he murmurs, shifting in his seat so the kid can sit beside him. The young man lifts his fingers in a V and Tony smirks, “Please, no gang signs,” he jokes, nudging the young man when he lowers his hand hastily, “No, throw it up, I'm kidding. Yeah, peace! I love peace. I'd be outta job with peace.”

He throws up a peace sign as the other man across from them struggles with the camera. The kid beside him kicks the other man’s shin, “C'mon! Just click it, don't change the settings, just click it.”

There’s a sudden blast that rocks the Humvee and Tony curses, whiskey spilling out of his glass as the men and women in the Humvee go taut, eyes sharp as they yell and the radio crackles.

“What's going on?” Tony asks, peering out the window till it shatters suddenly, glass fragments blowing inwards as a bullet whines by. Fear and panic turn his veins icy and he struggles with his seatbelt, the urge to run overwhelming.

“Jimmy, stay with Stark!” A man shouts, barely audible over the gunfire thundering outside the vehicle.

“Lie down!” Someone else screams, and a rough rough hand shoves him down into the seat. He can smell sweat and fear, rancid in the air as he breathes too fast, panic nearly blinding him.

“Son of a bitch!” The airman screams, body shuddering as bullets pierce the windshield and tear her body apart. Something hot and wet hits his face and he realizes it’s her blood and bile rises in his throat.

Gunfire and screams echo outside and he’s scared, so scared; he doesn’t know whether to stay or go, and all he can think of is Peter Parker, calling him a coward.

Without thinking, he lunges up and tries to climb out of the Humvee, “Wait, wait, give me a gun!” he shouts at the soldier running past, only to be shoved back towards the Humvee with an order to “Stay here!”

Another explosion rocks the air and he stumbles away as sand and heat blasts into him, the force of it buffeting his skin painfully. He fumbles for his sat phone, lunging behind a rock outcropping as he dials frantically, praying he’ll get a call out to someone to come and save his ass.

Sand blasts up beside him and he looks over, eyes widening in shock at the missile nose down in the sand beside him, STARK painted in bright red letters, undetonated. He stares at it, heart thundering as he waits for it to explode, pulse rocketing as his fingers tap, trying to get the call to connect.

He’s pretty sure it’s a dud—one in a million odds—but just as the call connects to Obie, he’s proved wrong. He doesn’t hear or see the explosion, it’s just white hot noise that burns his eyes and tears at his ears.

His eyes open to stare sightless up at the sky as pressure in his chest grows and pain strangles him with each shaky breath he takes.

Christ, this is how he’s going to die.

Alone in the desert, by one of his own fucking weapons.

The irony makes him bark out a painful laugh, and the agony that comes next takes his breath away before blackness consumes his vision and then he doesn’t know anything except darkness.

* * *

White hot agony rips through his chest, rousing him from the blissful blackness he had languished in and a guttural scream leaves his throat raw as hands hold him down, words in a language he doesn’t understand being shouted.

He’s never felt pain like this before—it’s all consuming, the only thing he can focus on as voices press against his ears and confusing, hazy images sink through him, his brain unable to process anything other than agony.

A man appears in his vision and orders him to be still, light haloed behind his head and Tony sobs, wishing he’d just die because every breath burns and he can’t, he can’t take this.

_Please, please kill me_ he begs, wet sobs making his throat burn and his chest explode in a brilliant display of anguish. He sucks for air, trying to keep his head above the rising darkness, but each breath is torment and he whispers again, _please kill me._

Something is pressed to his face and it smells like brown sugar and then blackness comes for him again and he sinks into it gratefully, tears rolling back his temples to soak into his sweaty black curls.

* * *

Only more pain lets him know he’s alive, and he’s not sure if that’s a good thing anymore. He’s weak and shaken, every breath like sucking air through a wet paper bag, lungs aching and struggling to sustain life within his battered and broken body.

There’s something in his nose, something in the back of his throat and he yanks it out, coughing and sputtering as the tubing comes free. It hurts, _god_ it hurts and he whines, trying to curl in on himself, but that only makes it worse.

Unbidden tears roll down his temples, warm against his cold skin and he whimpers, picturing Pepper and Happy and oh god, _Rhodey_ , was Rhodey hurt during the attack? He sobs and groans as pain ripples through him, cracking him open from the inside out.

His breath hitches in his throat and he stares at the rock ceiling over him, praying that his body will quit fighting because this hurts too much, it’s too painful and he can’t handle it, doesn’t want it, wishes he could evict it from his body like an unwanted spirit.

The arm he raises is weak and shaky as he shifts his hand to his chest, fingers prodding at the thick bandages, gasping as lights bloom behind his eyes, pain sparkling through nerve receptors until it’s like a light show under his skin.

He hears voices again and still can’t identify the language being spoken, fingers pressing harder into his chest and the bandages because there’s something under them, he can feel it, thick and hard and it _hurts_ , but he sits up into his elbow and tears at the material, gasping and fighting the urge to vomit.

Lights flash in front of his eyes as his blood pressure falls, head so light it hurts. He has to find out what they’ve done to him, has to _see,_ and panic swells in his gut, cold and sickening as the screeching of hinges alerts him to someone entering this cage they have him in.

Bleary eyed, he sees a thin man in glasses hurrying over, holding out a hand with a concerned look in his wide expressive eyes.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he advises calmly, gently tugging Tony’s hands from his chest.

He’s breathless and lightheaded and he’s still not sure he isn’t going to pass out or vomit, but he forces himself to focus, take in as much detail of his captors as he can.

“What the hell did you do to me?” he gasps weakly, glaring at the older man even as he helps him shift to a more comfortable position.

“What I did? What I did is to save your life,” he explains, pointing to the wound on Tony’s chest. He unwinds the bandages and shows him what he had felt underneath and sickness swells so thick in his throat that he’s sure he’s going to vomit this time.

“I removed all the shrapnel I could, but there's a lot left, and it's headed into your atrial septum,” he explains, and it takes Tony a moment to process what he’s being told.

There’s metal, in his chest where it shouldn’t be. An invasion. He chokes and presses a shaky hand to his face, shuddering as the other man continues talking.

“Here, wanna see? I have a souvenir. Take a look,” the man murmurs, holding up a small sample cup with shards of metal glinting cheerfully in the light from the bare bulbs hanging from the cave ceiling.

“I've seen many wounds like that in my village.We call them the walking dead. Because it takes about a week for the barbs to reach the vital organs,” he explains conversationally, like it’s not the most gruesome thing Tony’s ever heard or had the misfortune to witness.

  
“What is this?” he asks numbly, fingers running over the metal in his chest. The skin around it is red and irritated, but as far as he can tell, not infected. Small blessings, he supposes.

“That is an electromagnet. Hooked up to a car battery. And it's keeping the shrapnel from entering your heart.”

Tony stares at the contraption keeping him alive and has to fight the sudden urge to laugh hysterically. Tears burn in his eyes and he leans heavily back against the walls, gaze flickering around the room before settling on the cameras in the corners, stomach sinking at the implication that they’re being watched.

“That's right. Smile!” the man murmurs, lifting his brows at Tony dryly.

“We met once, you know. At the technical conference in Bern.”

“Don't remember,” he replies mulishly, peering around the room once again, taking stock of everything in this damp, cold prison.

The man laughs dryly, “No, you wouldn't. If I had been that drunk, I wouldn't have been able to stand,  
much less give a lecture on integrated circuits.”

Tony barely processes that information, peering around what seems to be a cave, “Where are we?” he asks tiredly. Before the other man can respond, the door screams open and men rush into the room, pointing weapons at them—STARK weapons.

  
“Come on, stand up,” the man who presumably saved his life orders. “Stand _up_. Do as I do,” he urges. “C'mon, put your hands up.”

Tony stares at the guns in his face, unable to process what he’s seeing. They shouldn’t have his weapons, these men who almost killed him, they shouldn’t have his weapons and he shakes his head, trying to figure out what went wrong, how they got their hands on his technology.

“Those are my guns,” he says dumbly, “How did they get my guns?”

The other man ignores his questions, “Do you understand me? Do as I do.”

Tony stands and holds his hands up, wincing at the burning pain in his chest.

A barrel chested man saunters in and begins speaking in a language Tony doesn’t understand, waving his hands and smiling.

The doctor—Tony presumes—translates.

“He says: "Welcome Tony Stark, the most famous mass murderer in the history of America."

_Murderer_

That’s what the kid—Peter Parker—had called him.

“He is honored.”

“He wants you to build a missile. The Jericho missile that you demonstrated.” The terrorist hands them a scrap of paper and Tony’s heart plummets when he sees what’s on it; a detailed photo of the Jericho.

“This one.”

Tony stares at the men, mind rapidly working through every probable scenario and winding up at the fact that they’ll kill him if he doesn’t do this, but he knows, if he _does_ do this, he’ll be responsible for more death, more terrorism.

He steels himself and takes a deep breath.

“I refuse.”


	3. Summer Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter learns Tony is missing, Tony gets some bad news, and things seem very bleak.

“So you followed him to the airport and confronted him? Peter, that’s not safe!” Steve gives him a worried look and shakes his head, lips pursed together in a frown.

“Says the guy who keeps picking fights with guys twice his size,” Bucky comments dryly, bending down as he passes by to drop a kiss to Steve’s hair. Peggy lifts her brows and gives him a knowing look from where she’s mixing together cookies in the kitchen and at the combined attention of his lovers, the sickly man flushes and ducks his head.

Peter sighs and nods, “I know Steve, but it’s my job! I have to find the truth. This man has to be held accountable for the things he’s done, and everyone lets him off the hook when he smiles and makes a donation to a school or a hospital or whatever.”

“I mean, he does a lot of good Pete,” Bucky comments as he opens a beer, “there’s been a lot of breakthroughs in medicine that wouldn’t have happened without him.”

He lifts his hand and shows off the shiny metal prosthetic he’d received courtesy of an experimental trial from Stark Industries. Guilt makes Peter flush and he nods, acknowledging Bucky’s point.

“Yea I know, but imagine what he could achieve if he stopped manufacturing weapons and focused on, oh, I don’t know, finding a cure for AIDS!” Peter exclaims, waving his hands in frustration.

He sighs and shakes his head, running a hand over his face, “I’m sorry guys, it’s just, Uncle Ben always went on about what a great man Howard was and how amazing Tony was, and I guess…” he trails off sadly.

“Like they say, don’t meet your idols,” Peggy comments in her dry British accent.

Peter shoots her a grin and shakes his head, “He’s not my idol.”

“Oh?” she drawls, giving him a wide eyed knowing look, “Is that why you had posters of him on your walls until you moved out of May’s?” she asks pointedly.

Bucky and Steve laugh and he shoots them dirty looks, but nods, sighing as he accepts her point. Ok, so _yea_ , maybe Stark was an idol—at least till he got older and realized the man was no more than a pretty smile and a scandal in a suit.

Maybe that’s why it bothers him so much to see Stark wasting his talent and making things for the government that only serve to perpetuate war and conflict—things he’s acutely familiar with in his reporting and his own personal life.

He’d been to Vietnam and seen the destruction of war and conflict, photographed it and fought alongside his friends for survival and he knows that sometime war is the only solution left, but he’s all too familiar with its consequences to be a proponent of war without limit.

His uncle Ben had been a man haunted and broken by what he’d seen and done at the behest of the government, and Peter just can’t stand by and let this man, who he had looked up to and wanted to be like, continue to make the world a deadlier place for those who are unfortunate enough to live in places that richer countries wanted to exploit.

“Listen, Peter, if you’re worried about these weapons of his ending up in the wrong hands, give me your pictures and what you’ve put together and I’ll see what I can find at SHIELD,” Peggy offers, waving a cookie dough laden spoon at him.

Bucky leans over and licks it clean, earning himself a smack on the arm and an _oye!_ before he’s shoved out of the kitchen by Peggy.

“That would be amazing Peggy, are you sure you won’t get in trouble?” Peter asks hesitantly. As much as he’d like to see what SHIELD can tell him about the black market distribution of STARK weapons, he’s worried that looking into this could spell trouble for Peggy.

She waves a hand and shakes her head, “Don’t worry about me love, those boys know better than to mess with me,” she tells him with a wink.

Peter nods and accepts the offer silently, smiling as Peggy goes on to tell them a story about one of the men under her command questioning her order while in the field, only to wind up shot in the ass by a rogue Russian agent, and then sanctioned upon his return home for refusing an order from a superior.

Bucky sweeps into the kitchen as Peggy puts the cookies on the counter to cool, taking her hand and leading her out into the living room, twirling her before pulling her back in with a grin.

Peter watches as they dance, the warm air in the apartment making sweat run down his neck, the scent of chocolate chip cookies and vanilla making him smile. It smells like home, and comfort and happiness.

_Southern nights_ _have you ever felt a southern night?_ _Free as a breeze_ _not to mention the trees_ _Whistling tunes that you know and love so._

Bucky spins Peggy and propels her back into the kitchen before turning and pulling Steve off the couch. The slim man laughs as Bucky spins him around the room, one of his large hands spanning his tiny waist. Peggy watches fondly as the men dance, laughing and singing along to the radio.

Peter rises from his place on the floor and goes to her side, stealing a cookie while it’s still warm.

“You know, we’d all do whatever you asked if you need help,” Peggy comments lightly, still watching the men as they sway slowly in place, Steve’s head on Bucky’s chest. Peter glances over at her, studying the way she holds herself and nods, leaning into her gently so she looks over at him and smiles softly.

“Thanks Peggy,” he murmurs, sliding an arm around her waist and dropping his head on her shoulder. A moment later she’s tugging him out of the kitchen and they’re dancing too and he’s laughing, heart lighter than it’s been in a very long time.

_Mysteries_ _like this and many others in the trees_ _Blow in the night_ _in the southern skies._

The music cuts off suddenly and a deep, concerned voice comes over the air waves.

“We’re sorry to interrupt our regularly scheduled programming, but we have news out of Iraq today concerning industrialist and billionaire Tony Stark. In what is being labeled a terrorist attack on both Mr. Stark and the US military, we have reports that ten US soldiers were killed during the attack. There are conflicting reports that Mr. Stark has been killed or taken captive, but for now, we do not have more details.”

It feels like all the air has been sucked from the room and when Peter looks up from where he’s been staring at the radio, his vision blurs and turns the figures of his friends into misshapen, blurry blobs.

“Pete, you okay?”

He blinks rapidly and turns away, scrubbing the heel of his hand into his eyes, throat too thick to speak.

A gentle hand lands on his shoulder and when he looks over, he finds Bucky at his side, concern deepening the lines around his eyes. The older man studies him for a moment before wrapping an arm around his shoulder and tugging him close. Peter takes the comfort and buries his face in Bucky's shirt, trying to steady his breathing.

It shouldn’t matter, knowing Tony has been taken, but for some reason it makes his gut twist, fear and concern leaving him short of breath. In the background Peter hears the tv click on, the news telling the same story the radio had.

They sit on the couch and the floor together, drinking and eating cookies, watching as the news speculation on Tony’s fate grows with every hour that passes.

A sick feeling lodges itself in his chest as he watches the news reels play interviews and then, sometime around midnight, a video cuts in and he watches along with the rest of the world as a group of men yank a bag off Tony Stark’s head and threaten to kill him if they aren’t paid a prince’s ransom.

He stays with his friends that night, laying on the couch while the news plays, the flickering lights playing over his skin as he watches the face of the man he’s admired for nearly his whole life being shown over and over again, bloodied, battered and bruised.

If Stark makes it out of this alive, Peter thinks maybe he owes the man an apology.

* * *

For his defiance Tony is dragged from his hole and shoved head first into a basin of water. He struggles and sputters, screaming as water lands on the electromagnet, shocking his heart and sending it racing in his chest.

He inhales water and chokes, body fighting on instinct to breathe, brain screaming for oxygen. His vision goes black around the edges and he bucks, trying to expel the water and suck in air and he’s dying, he’s actually going to die, and Christ, he doesn’t _want_ to die, he has to live, has to get out of this hell and find out who's been selling his weapons to these assholes.

They yank his head out of the water and he vomits, coughing and gasping, lungs burning as he retches more water. They smack him around for awhile; punching him in the gut so he vomits again, backhanding him and demanding he build the Jericho, shouting at him until they seemingly grow tired of the abuse and shove his head back under.

He’s prepared for it this time and struggles less, tries to hold his breath and then one of them punches him again, once into his stomach and then twice into his kidneys and he sees stars in his vision before he inhales sharply in pain and his lungs fight back once more, weaker this time.

He can feel himself losing the fight, his body tired and broken and ready to give in. His chest sobs as terror overwhelms him and his vision goes dark.

* * *

The next time he’s conscious, a hood is ripped off his head and he’s surrounded by men with AK’s as someone speaks and a camera focuses on his face. It’s hard to breathe with the blood in his mouth, and his chest aches with every breath he takes and he knows, _knows_ that something is deeply wrong inside him.

He hears the demand made for payment in exchange for his life and shudders because deep down he and these men know that no matter what happens; he’s not getting out of here alive.

* * *

He’s led outside the next morning, the doctor by his side supporting his arm and he blinks in the bright sunlight, lifting a hand to shield his vision as his eyes adjust. It’s just another layer of discomfort that he’s rapidly acclimating to; sweat and sand in every crevice, beard growing unruly with each day that passes—a foreign object in his chest keeping him alive…

The barrel chested man is back, waving a hand around and talking rapidly in a language Tony doesn’t recognize, and once more the doctor is translating.

“He wants to know what you think.”

“I think he’s got a lot of my weapons,” Tony replies, rage making his hands shaky as he sees just how much of his life’s work is in the hands of men like this.

“He says they have everything you need to build a Jericho missile. He wants you to make the list of materials. He says for you to start working immediately, and when you're done, he will set you free.”

The barrel chested man grins broadly at them, hands spread wide, his generous offer a bald faced lie.

Tony swallows hard and nods, pasting on a fake smile “No, he won't,” he murmurs to the doctor.

The other man nods and smiles at the terrorist, “No, he won't,” he agrees softly, hope guttering in his chest like a dying flame.

* * *

The clacking of typewriters fills the newsroom and Peter hunkers down, brow furrowing as he types out his story. It’s a fluff piece on the new panda at the New York Zoo, and he’d rather be anywhere else than here, but he hasn’t heard back from Peggy on his files or from Pepper Potts and Obadiah Stane regarding Tony Stark so he’s relegated to writing this crap.

He’s nearly finished the piece when his phone rings, jolting him out of his headspace and he curses at the mistype he’ll have to go back and correct before he reaches for the phone with a frown.

“Parker,” he answers, voice clipped and annoyed.

“Peter? I…can you get to Presby Hospital?” Peggy’s voice shakes badly and fear curls through Peter’s stomach, cold and clutching at his gut. “S-Steve got beaten up...badly.”

“Fuck!”

He can hear her sniffle as he stands and starts shoving things in his bag, “Yea no problem Peggy, is Bucky there yet?”

“No, he’s in jail.”

Peter stills, eyes falling shut. “What?” he whispers hoarsely, “What happened?”

“He went after the men who hurt Steve. Grabbed a pipe and beat one man’s skull in and broke the other’s leg. He’s being charged with attempted homicide,” she whispers, voice cracking.

Peter slumps, head falling as he struggles under the weight of everything he’s just learned. “Umm okay, I...I’ll go to the hospital. Call Natasha and ask her to go to the jail, she and Bucky fought together in Nam, she’ll get him out in a heartbeat,” Peter tells her, pulling himself together and pushing aside the fear and anger until he has time to process them later.

“Right, right, good idea,” Peggy agrees, sniffling softly. “Peter?”

He hums and bounces on his feet, eager to get going and be by his friend’s side.

“Thank you. You’re a very good man and we’re lucky to have you.”

He softens instantly, tears welling in his eyes, “I’m the lucky one Peg, you all have taken care of me more than enough times, I’m happy to return the favor. I’ll call you from the hospital, okay?”

She makes a soft noise and he pauses before hanging up. “Love you Peggy,” he whispers, voice breaking on the last syllable.

He hears her sob and his chest aches, yearning with the need to comfort his friend. “Love you too Pete.” He hangs up, swiping at his eyes and grabs his story out of the typewriter, jogging across the newsroom to MJ’s desk so he can leave it on her desk.

He writes a hasty note explaining the situation and an IOU before barreling out of the office and into the street. He takes a taxi and doesn’t think about what it’s going to cost to get from Manhattan to Flushing—it doesn’t matter because this is _Steve_ , his friend, his family.

He stares out the window, anxiety curling through his gut till he feels nauseous and dizzy. His fingers tap on the worn leather seat and his knee jiggles, panic in the back of his throat choking him.

This is their worst nightmare; Steve has been sick and weak since he was a kid, and while he’s gotten stronger with age, he’s still shorter than Peter by a head and a full sixty pounds lighter. He’s _also_ stubborn as hell, hates bullies and refuses to back down from a fight.

Peter pays the driver, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers as he hurries into the hospital, the scent of disinfectant making his stomach revolt. It’s been four years since Ben died, and he still hates hospitals; the lingering scent of bleach and grief and death lingers in the air so thick he can taste it in the back of his throat.

The nurse directs him to Steve’s room and when he pushes open the door, his heart goes crashing to the floor.

Steve looks tiny in the bed, smaller than he usually does, with tubes and wires obscuring his face, thin chest rising and falling slowly. A machine is breathing for him and every inch of his face that Peter can see when he steps forward is covered in bruises.

His left eye socket is so swollen that Peter think if he didn’t know this was Steve, he’d be entirely unrecognizable.

He sits down shakily on the bed, carefully taking Steve’s hand in his as tears burn behind his eyes. “God Steve, why? Why can’t you just back down?” he whispers, shaking his head and wiping at his eyes with his free hand.

The fingers in his grasp twitch and he looks up to Steve’s face, hoping he’s waking, but the smaller man remains silent and still, the rattling echo of his breathing and the steady beep of the machines the only sound in the room.

Peter stands and drags a chair over, dropping his bag by his feet and leans his head back against the wall. He pulls the book he’s been working on for a few days out of his bag and starts to read out loud, looking up occasionally to study his friend’s face before sliding back to the words on the page.

_“The truth about the world, he said, is that anything is possible. Had you not seen it all from birth and thereby bled it of its strangeness it would appear to you for what it is, a hat trick in a medicine show, a fevered dream, a trance bepopulate with chimeras having neither analogue nor precedent, an itinerant carnival, a migratory tentshow whose ultimate destination after many a pitch in many a mudded field is unspeakable and calamitous beyond reckoning._ _The universe is no narrow thing and the order within it is not constrained by any latitude in its conception to repeat what exists in one part in any other part. Even in this world more things exist without our knowledge than with it and the order in creation which you see is that which you have put there, like a string in a maze, so that you shall not lose your way. For existence has its own order and that no man's mind can compass, that mind itself being but a fact among others.”_

* * *

Tony and the doctor are herded back into the cave where he sits heavily, out of breath and chest aching from the abuse his lungs received during his torture. The electromagnet in his chest doesn’t help either.

Fuck, he’s so tired. He just wants to go home.

Despair creeps into his soul and he ducks his head, fighting tears as he struggles to breathe slowly, each breath ragged and painful.

“I'm sure they're looking for you, Stark,” the doctor says quietly, voice low, “But they will never find you in these mountains. Look...What you just saw...that is your legacy, Stark.”

Tony looks up at him, anger and shame warring for dominance as the man continues, “Your life's work in the hands of those murderers. Is that how you want to go out? Is this the last act of defiance of the great Tony Stark? Or are you going to do something about it?”

He knows he’s being manipulated, and he’s not sure if he’s annoyed or pleased that it’s working.

“Why should I do anything?” he demands, “They're gonna kill me, you…” he trails off for a moment and shakes his head, “Either way, if they don't, I'll probably be dead in a week,” he says despair filling him once more at the morbid thought.

He’s wanted to die so many times in his long life; every time his father beat him, denigrated him, told him he was worthless...he had prayed for death. But now, here, in this literal hell on earth where he’s almost certainly going to die...he finds he doesn’t want to anymore.

  
The doctor smiles faintly at him and nods, “Well then...this is a very important week for you, isn't it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Peter reads to Steve is Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy and is considered one of the greatest western novels of all time.


	4. Sound of Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a fateful encounter occurs at a protest, a friendship is formed, and the wheel turns.

Steve’s in the hospital for three weeks before he’s strong enough to go home; still bruised and weak, hand shaking where he leans on the cane he now has to use to get around.

Peggy puts up a strong front while Steve is around but every night for a week Peter or Bucky holds her while she cries into their chest. With Bucky out of jail and the charges dropped against him, the three of them manage to always have at least one of them be around for Steve while he recovers.

Peter’s not much of a cook, but he cleans and does laundry for his friends, reads to Steve while he does his therapy, and talks to him about the stories he’s been working on while Steve was in the hospital.

He still doesn’t have much information on the black market weapons dealing that led to the Ten Rings gaining Stark weaponry, and Peggy hasn’t been able to dig up any leads yet, so for now he’s sitting on the story, waiting till he has more, waiting till Tony Stark comes home and he can confront him again.

Because even if things seem hopeless, he’s going to hunt down the truth.

* * *

There’s a flurry of activity coming in and out of the cave as various missiles and weaponry is moved in. This at least is familiar, directing people in a lab setting—except it’s a goddamn cave in Iraq and not his top of the line lab back in New York.

“If this is gonna be my workstation, I want it well lit, I want all of these tools,” he tells a group of men who are his to direct and demand things from. _Freedom_ he wants to say, _I want freedom_. But that’s not going to happen unless he makes it, so he barrels on while the doctor translates.

“Welding gear, I don't care if it's acetylene or propane. I need a soldering station, I need helmets, I need goggles, I would like a smelting cup. I need two sets of precision tools.”

The doctor translates easily, waving his hands to describe and Tony watches him with interest. When the activity has slowed some, he glances over at the older man as he works on sketches, “How many languages do you speak?”

“A lot. But apparently not enough for this place. They speak arabic, urdu, dari, pashto, mongolian, farsi, russian,” the doctor explains softly.

“Who are these people?” Tony asks, a sinking feeling he already knows the answer.

“They are your loyal customers, sir. They call themselves The Ten Rings.”

Tony’s hands still for a moment as he hammers on the head of a missile, gut twisting as he recalls a pretty young man waving pictures in his face and demanding accountability.

He swallows hard and goes back to work, focusing on keeping his hands steady as he tears apart the essential parts of a missile.

“You know, we might be more productive if you include me in the planning process?”

Tony grimaces as he strips parts down, making a soft _Aha_ noise. “Okay. We don't need this,” he mutters tossing aside parts before carefully reaching in with tongs and lifting out what he’s been after.

“What is that?”

He smirks faintly, “That's palladium, 0.15 grams. We need at least 1.6, so why don't you go break down the other eleven,” he says, waving a hand at the other missiles.

Days pass while they prepare the palladium, and he sketches more plans for something to get them out of this hell. He’s careful to layer them on multiple sheets of paper, keeping them separate so if any of their guards come in to check on their progress they won’t have any idea of what he’s planning.

_He_ doesn’t even know what he’s planning yet, but he’s not going to give up on the hope that they’ll get out of here.

He studies the electromagnet in his chest carefully, talking with the doctor at night before he understands the process the man used to get it in his chest. When he’s sure he’s right—he’s run the numbers fifty times and his math is never wrong—he sets out to create something to replace it.

His hands shape and mold, and at the end of the week he’s ready. They melt down the palladium and he watches as the doc carries the white hot cup over to the table where the ring is ready and waiting.

“Careful. Careful, we only get one shot at this,” he murmurs, carrying his battery with him as the older man pours out the palladium.

“Relax, I've steady hands. Why do you think you're still alive, huh?” the older man replies archly, giving him a soft, wry smile.

His hands are steady as he tinkers with the arc reactor they’ve created, making sure it’s stable before it goes into his chest. He’d laugh at that thought, because he has an electromagnet made from scraps in a cave in his chest right now so just about anything would be better, but he’s acutely aware of the fact that if he gets this wrong, he’s going to die.

His week is up and he can feel it already, light headed and dizzy, it’s hard to breathe as the shards of metal in his chest make their way towards his heart. It’s hard to think that just a week ago he’d been near desperate to die, and now all he wants is to go home.

He misses Pepper and her wry smiles and seemingly endless ability to tolerate him. He laughs softly as he pictures the look on her face when he returns, disbelief and probably a little angry for ever putting himself in harm's way to begin with.

His smile fades as his thoughts shift to another person who’s likely disappointed with him; Peter Parker. At the base before they’d headed into the desert for the Jericho test he had as many of the kids articles as he could get his hands on faxed over and sat and read them, ignoring Rhodey’s pestering him about schedules and timeliness and _you’re being rude Tony_.

The majority of the pieces were pointless fluff, but there were a small few that sent his brows skyrocketing. The kid had written a highly intelligent and technical article on Stark Industries’ latest “smart” technology prototype vehicle and essentially called it what it was; a useless waste of money that only the rich would be able to afford.

Tony had said the same thing to the board but had been overruled, and then the new prototype had quickly been canned when the electric hybrid engine caught fire after a thousand miles.

So now he knew a few things about the kid; he’s incredibly smart—likely as smart as Tony, understands mechanical engineering, has the ability to become a world class investigative journalist and photographer, and is likely the only person who will be able to help him find out why his weapons are in the hands of terrorists—if he can get the kid to trust him.

He thinks back to the angry set of Peter’s jaw and the disappointment in his gaze when he’d confronted Tony and he sighs heavily—he doubts the kid will trust him after the shit way he’d treated him, but if— _when_ —he gets out of here, he’s going to try and fix it.

That evening he and the doctor set everything up to remove the electromagnet and replace it with the arc reactor. He’s scared, he can admit that to himself here, where bare truths are found in a cold cave, struggling for survival, but he’s not going to give up, not till he’s dead or free.

“What do I call you?” he asks as the doctor removes the electromagnet from his chest, breathless and dizzy as his body starts to go into cardiac arrest.

“My name is Yinsen,” the older man says with a soft smile as he sets the miniaturized arc reactor into Tony’s chest. It glows bright and then fades to a softer glow and after just a few breaths he’s already feeling better.

He takes the hand Yinsen offers and grins, “Yinsen... nice to meet you,” he murmurs warmly, patting the man’s shoulder and then tapping his fingers on the reactor, “nice work doc.”

The older man smiles softly and nods, “You as well my friend.”

They settle in that night and Yinsen teaches him backgammon, an easy way to pass the time here as night falls and the cave grows colder. His mind works a million miles a minute on his escape plan for he and Yinsen, knowing that everyday that passes without him building the Jericho is another day closer to death.

* * *

Peter watches as Peggy and Bucky argue with Steve over his ability to attend the protest they’ve been preparing for for two months.

“Baby, you’re still using the cane, if some police officer decides you’re a good target you’ll get hurt, _badly_ ,” Peggy explains, brows worried together as Steve stares up at her defiantly.

“I’ll stick to the middle of the crowd with you three. We’ll be fine,” Steve insists, iron in his thin voice, louder than he normally speaks and Peter admires him for a minute because he’s never backed down from doing what he thinks is right and especially not in the face of discrimination.

Peggy huffs and looks at Bucky, “You want to talk some sense into his thick head?” she snaps, shaking her head as she walks away, into the kitchen to splay her hands on the counter, head dropped low as she breathes slow and steady.

Bucky and Steve watch her for a moment before the smaller man’s brow furrows with worry and then he hobbles over, one thin hand lifting to press against the small of her back as he leans in and speaks to her too softly for Peter to hear.

He decides to give the trio some space and nods to Bucky on his way out of the apartment, heading for the payphone on the corner to check his messages. He’s been trying to land an interview with Obadiah Stane for the past three weeks with no luck, and he doubts there’ll be anything on his messages that changes that, but a guy can hope.

A few minutes later he’s sighing and hanging up; four crank calls and a tip about a business owner refusing service to an interracial couple that sounds promising, and he already knows JJ won’t want to print it. He’s been looking to move to a new paper but he knows it’s not easy for someone as liberal as him in the much more conservative world of newspaper journalism.

What he needs is a story, something big, to propel his name to the top and make _them_ want him, regardless of his sexual orientation or political beliefs.

What he needs is an interview with Tony Stark.

It’s too bad that he’s been presumed dead after the terrorists didn’t receive payment for him, because if he had survived, it’s sure to be one hell of a story.

“Hey, you ready to head out?”

Peter looks up and finds Bucky standing beside him, an unhappy looking Peggy and an equally annoyed looking Steve beside her. He spots the wheelchair a moment later and fights the instinct to lift his brows in surprise.

“Compromised, huh?” he murmurs, getting a tired look that screams _leave it alone_ from Bucky. The older man just sighs and nods, claps a hand to his shoulder and nudges him forward.

“Come on newsman, let’s go get you a story,” Bucky sighs.

They meet up with MJ and Ned about halfway to the start of the protest route and fall into a loose circle around Steve who’s annoyed to be in the wheelchair, but pleased he gets to participate in the rally like he had wanted.

Peggy and Bucky flank him, eyes sharp and assessing on the crowd as it grows around them; always on the lookout for trouble. Peter thinks it’s sort of amazing how very deadly they are but how absolutely soft and sweet they are with Steve and each other.

Peggy had fought for her position in SHIELD after fighting alongside the Howling Commandos in Vietnam, taking on the most dangerous missions and proving herself time and again.

It was during one particularly fraught mission that Bucky had been injured and had his arm amputated by Peggy. What would have broken most men and destroyed a relationship was the catalyst for theirs, and when they came home from war and joined protests against its continued violence they’d met Steve—going toe to toe with a counter protestor twice his size.

The rest as they say, was history.

It’s a beautiful July day, not yet sweltering, with a cool breeze blowing in from the east that helps wick sweat away as they march and chant, trying to get people to care that there’s a killer among them, silent and deadly.

Peter takes photos, grinning when the drag queens pose and blow kisses. Despite the fact that it’s a protest, the air is still light and filled with jokes and laughter. This is as much a protest to raise awareness of the AIDS epidemic as it is to boldly proclaim their existence, daring the world to condemn them for living and loving as they desire.

He and MJ are chatting idly when he raises his camera towards a couple, clasping hands with brows pressed together, a bastion of calm in the chaos surrounding them. He already knows how he wants to finish it; the crowd in sparkling technicolor, the couple in stark black and white.

He snaps the picture and then three more to be sure and it’s as he’s lowering his camera that he spies bright coppery red hair that’s distinct and familiar. Frowning, he nudges MJ, “Isn’t that Pepper Potts?” he asks, pointing to the figure a few yards away.

MJ rises to her toes and peers at the woman before shrugging, “Can’t tell from here. Let’s go find out,” she says, seconds before grabbing his hand and yanking him towards the unknown woman.

When they’re within a few feet MJ calls out “Pepper Potts?” in a voice loud enough to draw gazes from around them. Peter can feel his cheeks burning and he groans softly as the woman turns and it is, in fact Pepper Potts.

Her icy blue gaze runs over them before settling on him, mouth pinching. “Peter Parker,” she greets flatly, eyes darting to MJ, “I’m sorry I don’t think I know you miss…”

MJ sticks out her hand, “MJ,” she says by way of explanation and to her credit, it’s by far the most polite greeting she’s given to someone new that Peter’s ever heard from her.

Pepper accepts her hand and smiles faintly, “Nice to meet you MJ.”

“What are you doing _here_?” MJ asks in reply, “you hardly seen the type to care.”

Peter’s head whips toward her, aghast at the rude question, but then Pepper laughs and he’s staring at _her_ instead and he really just needs these two to stop sending his blood pressure through the roof.

“I’m here because I’m queer,” Pepper replies lightly, “and because my best friend was just diagnosed and I know my voice can carry some sway in this fight for recognition,” she explains, “why are _you_ here MJ?”

They stare at each other for a long moment before MJ grins and replies. “Good answer Miss Potts, though I’d recommend being a little more circumspect about your answers in front of two journalists,” she points out playfully.

Pepper smirks faintly, “Yes, but then where would the fun be in that?” she replies and lifts a brow, grin growing as MJ laughs and _holy shit_...

They’re...they’re flirting.

Peter stares at the duo who couldn’t possibly be more different and despite it, can see pleasure glittering in Pepper’s eyes and a playful twist to MJ’s lips that he’s only seen very rarely. Pepper’s gaze slides back to him and he sees some of the light dim in her eyes as she studies him.

“You’re the kid who accosted Tony at the airport before he left, isn’t that right?” she asks icily, lips turned down in disapproval.

“I’d hardly call it accosting,” Peter replies, “he’s dodged questions about weapons manufacturing and how he squares it morally given how those weapons are being used and I wanted to ask him before he went to yet another country and used his weapons to promote American imperialism.”

Pepper stares at him, eyes hard before she sighs and shakes her head, “Yea well, whatever you said shook him up. He had a bunch of your articles faxed to the base before he was kidnapped and he told Rhodey shortly beforehand that he had something important to talk about.”

Heart skipping a beat, he edges closer, “Do you know what it was about?” he asks hopefully, exhaling unhappily when Pepper shakes her head.

Their conversation is brought to a halt as Peggy, Steve and Bucky catch up, greeting Pepper politely as they continue on the protest route, the group moving closer together as counter protestors and police line the way.

He drops back a few steps, leaving MJ and Pepper to talk while he takes more photos, mind moving a million miles a minute. Apparently it hadn’t been such a waste of his time to confront Stark; he’d taken the information to heart and if he hadn’t been taken, Peter wondered if Stark would have talked to him again, maybe given him an interview.

The air explodes ten feet to the right of the group and there’s a flash of light and heat and then he’s on the ground, ears ringing and skull throbbing. He inhales raggedly and coughs, dirt and dust scratching against his throat.

_Contact right! We’ve got Charlies on our flank, air support requested!_

Panting, be shakes his head to clear the memory away, the bitter taste of explosives lodged in the back of his throat.

Through hazy eyes he sees MJ and Pepper curled together beside him, blood and dust matting coppery hair to Pepper’s cheek. He rolls and groans at the ache in his ribs, searching desperately for Steve and the others.

He sees Ned sitting on the sidewalk, clutching his head and they share a nod before he’s crawling over to where Steve is laying on the ground, arms protecting his head while Peggy scans the area, knees bloodied and gun in hand.

Bucky is on his feet, pointing protestors away from the route, voice loud above the ringing in Peter’s ears, feet planted protectively in front of Steve. He sways when he rises to his feet and stumbles over to the smaller man, hands gentle as he guides him back into the wheelchair, heart racing too fast and hands shaky as he grabs the handles and holds on for dear life.

He’s dizzy as he lifts his camera, screams ringing in his ears and he wants to run, hard and fast, but if he survived Vietnam he can survive this. He takes photos, climbing up on a nearby vehicle to get a better angle and what he sees turns his stomach.

Bodies, crumpled and tossed aside like unwanted dolls, smeared in red and too still. He takes a deep breath and lifts his camera to take photo after photo, gut wrenching at the blood on the pavement and the acrid smell of fear in the air. He doesn’t get as many photos as he’d like but getting his friends away safely from this madness is more important.

Bucky rounds on them and crouches in front of Steve, hands gentle as he lifts his chin and runs his hands over his thin frame, worry tensing every line of his body. He says something too soft for Peter to hear over the screams of the crowd and cups Steve’s neck gently, leaning in to press their foreheads together and Peter’s stomach clenches.

MJ and Pepper shuffle over, MJ supporting the taller woman’s weight with an arm around her waist, their group huddling together against the onslaught of screams and violence.

Bucky rises back to his feet and glances as the small group before pulling his own gun out and handing it to Peter, “Get them out of here,” he orders, voice firm and commanding and it’s not hard to remember him leading a unit of soldiers into battle with that voice.

Peter wants to protest, he doesn’t like guns, remembers all too well what the weight of one feels like in his hand, but there’s fear in Bucky's eyes so he nods and takes it, tucks it under the hem of his shirt and into the waistband of his jeans and nods to the group, “Lets go.”

“We’re closer to Stark Tower, we should go there,” Pepper says, words slurred softly and he looks over to her in concern—her head is bleeding and her eyes look unfocused to him and that’s _definitely_ not a good sign.

He turns to Ned and has him take over pushing Steve, climbs up onto the roof a nearby car and scans into the distance, watching as people scream and run, others lying on the ground, motionless. He picks a path that has the least resistance and leads the way, eyes wary as he occasionally climbs cars to make sure they aren’t being followed.

They move as fast as they can away from the protest route and behind them he hears sirens wailing, the sound of it echoing through the eerily empty streets. As they get further away, the sound of silence surrounds them, pressing at their skin and it makes him shiver.

It creeps along beside them, wordless and faceless, the sound of silence.


	5. Shoot To Thrill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony makes a grand escape, a friend is lost, and another is found.

The suit is almost ready, just a few more days and they’ll have a way to break free. Every moment is spent working on it, faking the process of building a Jericho missile system and when they aren’t working they’re mapping the caves when they’re taken for short walks.

His nerves grow with each day and when the leader of the Ten Rings comes in to threaten them into working harder, Tony knows they can’t delay any longer. He works through the night, building and welding and hammering until it’s as ready as it can be, and then sets aside his tools.

He wraps himself in a blanket and curls onto his cot, leaning against the wall and closing his eyes. He’s exhausted but far too wired to sleep. For now he imagines what he’ll do when he gets back to New York.

Shower, for sure. The basin they allow him to use twice a week isn’t nearly enough; running a hand over his jaw he muses that a shave is in order as well. His carefully sculpted beard has grown into something bushy and wild and he hates the itch (and smell).

Pizza, and beer, he decides, and _sex_ …. _god_ he can’t wait to have sex again. Being watched on security cameras doesn’t lend itself to an erection inducing atmosphere—though his younger self never had problems performing on camera with various lovers. Being held against his will is a pretty decent boner killer, to be sure.

“Stark, you need rest,” Yinsen murmurs from his cot, reaching for his glasses and sliding them up his nose with a faint smile.

Tony sighs and shakes his head, “Can’t, too much up here,” he murmurs, lifting a hand to tap on his temple. Yinsen nods and rubs a hand over his jaw and a thought occurs to Tony, “You still didn't tell me where you're from,” he murmurs, trying to get his mind off the coming day and their escape plan.

Yinsen smiles softly, “I'm from a small town called Gulmira. It's actually a nice place,” he says with a faint smile, eyes dark and sad. Tony’s frozen, the name of the town ringing through him.

_Gulmira_...he sees wide, whiskey eyes staring at him, accusing and disappointed and he swallows hard, nodding.

“You got a family?” he manages to ask, mouth dry swallowing hard as Yinsen nods and smiles sadly.

“Yes. And I will see them when I leave here,” he says softly, tiredly. “And you, Stark?” he asks, giving him a knowing look that Tony hates. He doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head, avoiding the piercing steady gaze of the older man.

“So you're a man who has everything... and nothing.”

* * *

_“Dad look!”_

_Tony bounces in place, excited and eager, grasping the robot he’d created close to his chest. He peers up at his father, waiting for his attention, fighting the urge to whine—Howard hates it when he whines._

_“Dad,” he whispers a little more insistently, reaching out with a hesitant hand, pressing it into his father's knee. Howard finally glances down and frowns at him, stepping away so Tony loses his grip and quickly returns his hand to the robot._

_“I’m working Tony, what are you doing in here?” Howard growls, huffing out an impatient sigh. “I can’t have you bothering me.”_

_Tony feels his gut tighten unpleasantly and swallows hard, “But dad, I made—”_

_“Tony I don’t care.” His father brushes past him and flips a switch, comes back and grabs his arm too tightly, drags him out of the workshop and points to a red light on the wall outside, “See that? That means you can’t be in here. Now, **go** ,” he mutters, shoving Tony toward the stairs, turning away without looking back._

_The door closes in Tony’s face with a resounding thud and he stares at it for a moment, tears burning in his throat. His breath hitches and he scrambles up the stairs with all the ungainliness of a five year old._

_Brushing past Jarvis he runs up to his bedroom and throws himself on his bed, sobbing hot tears into the mattress. He clutches the robot and cries himself to sleep, heartsick and lonely._

* * *

After the chaos of the protest, they end up at Stark Tower where a doctor is already waiting and Happy is livid. They’re chivvied up to what appears to be a fully functional hospital where they’re each led to separate beds and immediately looked over. Pepper has a concussion and a head wound that needs stitches, Ned has a blown eardrum, MJ mostly has scrapes and bruises and Peter has a damaged eardrum, facial lacerations, and a bruise on his ribs from where he slammed into a car with the force of the blast.

Steve is....well, he has three bruised ribs, welts and gashes on his face, arms and legs and a small concussion. Peter sits by his bed, watching the smaller man’s chest rise and fall, an IV and a cannula sending oxygen, painkillers, fluids and some other cocktail of medicine into his veins and nose.

Rubbing a hand over his face, he sinks back into the chair and closes his eyes, exhaustion settling so deep into his bones it feels like he’s weighted down by lead. He feels something warm settle over him and cracks his eyes open to find MJ walking away, a warm flannel blanket covering him.

The steady beep of machinery in the background lets him know that Steve is still alive, for now at least.

* * *

The dawn of their escape is slow, sky stained red along the horizon and while the stars still show in the sky Tony and Yinsen work on the final steps of the plan. They decide to make their break as soon as breakfast is brought, when most of the guards are eating and half asleep and therefore marginally less of a threat.

They put the finishing touches to the suit of armor he’s created, just waiting for the right moment. Yinsen readies the diversion they’ve created, hands steady as ever as he gets everything in place and then they wait.

Tony pretends to work on the Jericho while Yinsen hands him tools and makes himself look busy too, but they’re both far too nervous and twitchy to pull it off for long. Adrenaline and anxiety makes his stomach twist, bitter and churning as he fumbles a wrench and forces himself to take a deep breath.

“Steady my friend,” Yinsen murmurs, slim fingers reaching out to press gently into Tony’s wrist, “have faith, we will be free soon.”

Tony nods and closes his eyes, deep slow breaths helping to steady his pulse. The fingers at his wrist tighten for a moment, firm and reassuring, and then they’re gone.

He opens his eyes and smiles faintly at the older man; if anything good came from this, it’s his friendship with Yinsen. He thinks idly that he’d like to meet his family when this is all over, maybe he can bring them to New York and show them the beauty of his world.

He makes himself eat the breakfast they’re brought, though the porridge sticks thickly to his throat and he has to force himself to swallow it and not vomit from nerves. He leaves Yinsen to eat and goes to the suit, stares at it for a long moment before he starts readying himself.

Over his tank top he layers his welding jacket and checks the bolts one more time. He’s halfway in the suit when he hears a knock at the door and then shouting. Yinsen answers and then hurries over, soft brown eyes wide with fear.

“They are coming,” he hisses, reaching for the drill to bolt him into the suit.

His hands shake and Tony grabs his shoulder firmly, sharing a quick smile, “We’re getting out of here,” he promises and Yinsen just smiles that sad smile and nods. “Okay?”

“Yes. Can you move?” Yinsen asks as he hurries to bolt everything in place. Tony nods sharply and Yinsen glances up at him, “Say it again,” he demands.

“41 steps straight ahead. Then 16 steps, that's from the door, fork right, 33 steps, turn right.”

Yinsen nods and flinches at the hammering on the door, another man shouting into the room. Tony glances between Yinsen and the door, panic blooming in his lungs. “Say something,” he hisses.

The older man shakes his head, fear paling his skin, “He is speaking hungarian, I don't…”

“Speak hungarian,” Tony hisses, panic growing as the man shouts louder. They’re coming in and they aren’t ready yet.

“Okay…”

“What do you know?” he demands, breathing a sigh of relief when Yinsen strings together a few words, but it’s apparently not enough because a moment later the door is being thrown open and an explosion rocks the air.

Dust and steel and rock fragments filter through the air and Tony coughs, trying to peer toward the door as Yinsen hurries to finish. “How did that work?” he asks, grinning when Yinsen turns and looks back and then back to Tony, visibly shaken.

“Oh my goodness….it worked all right,” he murmurs breathlessly, “What do I do?” He asks as shouts come from down the corridor.

“Finish last powering sequence” Tony orders, hands flexing in the gloves of the suit, watching as Yinsen turns to the clunky computer they had given him.

“Okay.”

“Now!” he snaps, fear making him harsh as the sound of men running and shouting gets closer.

“Tell me, tell me!” Yinsen gasps, fingers shaking as he follows Tony’s barked instructions.

“F 11. Tell me when you see a progress bar. It should be up right now. Talk to me, tell me when you see it.”

“I have it.”

“Press Ctrl + I.”

“Got it.”

“'Enter.”

“I, 'Enter'.”

A progress bar blinks onto the screen, showing the steady inch forward of the suit powering up and coming online. “Come over here and button me up,” he orders; they’re almost done and quickly running out of time.

Yinsen is so pale he looks like paste, glancing over his shoulder like a nervous rabbit, “They are coming!”

“Every other hex bolt,” he curses, “Doesn't need to look pretty, just get it done.”

“They are coming.”

Tony glances between the progress bar and Yinsen, tension growing with each moment that passes and he silently prays to whatever god is out there for it to go faster, _please_. “Make sure that checkpoints are clear before you follow me out, OK?” he orders the older man.

Yinsen stares at the computer screen, something unnameable passing over his face, “We need more time,” he whispers hoarsely. Tony’s stomach lurches when he rises unsteadily to his feet and nods, “Okay. I'm gonna go buy you some time.”

_No no no_...panic chokes him and he barely gets the words out, “Stick to the plan! Stick to the plan!” he shouts, watching helplessly as the older man runs away. “Yinsen! Yinsen!” he calls, ducking his chin when he realizes the gunfire he hears in the distance is Yinsen, buying him time.

His stomach writhes as the suit comes to life and then he rips free, lumbers out into the hallway, measuring his steps as he makes for freedom. Men scream and fire at him, bullets ricocheting around him and he tries not to flinch or waste time on those running away, instead making for the cave entrance.

He kills who he has to, their faces blurred as adrenaline and fear propel him forward, closer and closer to freedom. He rounds the corner and nearly stumbles when he sees Yinsen, laying on a bed of flour sacks, pale and bleeding heavily.

Hurrying over as fast as he can in the suit, he kneels and reaches a shaky hand out to Yinsen, and oh god, it’s bad, there’s so much blood. He has to get him out of here, get him safe and patch him up so he can be free and see his family again.

“Stark.”

Yinsen’s voice is low and hoarse and Tony shakes his head, refuting what he already knows is coming, “Come on. We gotta go. Move with me. C'mon, we got a plan, we need to stick to it,” he murmurs desperately, trying to lift Yinsen, stopping when the older man groans and shakes his head, pushing his hand away.

“This was always the plan, Stark,” he whispers, that faint, sad smile coming to his lips once more. Tony hates that smile.

“Come on, you're going to go see your family again,” he urges, trying to get a hand under his shoulders and lift him. Yinsen pushes him away again, shaking his head, lips turning blue as the coarse fabric beneath him is slowly stained red.

It grows as he weakens, the pool of red, and Tony can hear his breathing growing labored. Tears burn in his eyes and he shakes his head, trying to refute what’s happening right in front of him.

“My family is dead. I'm going to see them now, Stark,” he whispers, coughing, blood splattering over his lips and chin. “It's okay. It's okay. I want this. I want this,” he gasps, breathing slow and labored and painful.

Tony’s chest hitches with a broken sob and he takes the older man’s hand firmly, smiling at him through tears, “Thank you for saving me,” he whispers earnestly, feeling the fine tremors wracking Yisnen’s body in the thin hand held between his.

“Don't waste it,” Yinsen admonishes, light fading slowly from his eyes, “Don't waste your life,” he gasps and then, just like that, he’s gone.

Tony bows his head for a moment, holding the hand of the man who gave him a second chance at life and says a prayer to the man’s god that he’ll be happy wherever he is now; safe and warm and whole and with his family.

Men shouting draws him out of his reverie and to his feet. Steel strengthens his spine and ice enters his veins as he casts one last look at Yinsen before turning and lowering the face plate. He strides out and stands firm when the men assembled fire on him, bullets thundering into the armor like hail against a tin roof.

When their clips run empty he grits his teeth and smiles bitterly.

“My turn.”

* * *

Whatever the doctors have given Steve has worked, because just two days later he’s up and walking and his lungs are clear for the first time in years and he even looks like he’s put on weight and muscle.

They’re told it’s an experimental treatment for AIDS patients to encourage weight retention and muscle mass to help the body fight the infection. Whatever it is, it’s saved Steve’s life and though Peter has about a million questions, he knows the doctors won’t tell him any more than they already have.

It seems MJ and Pepper have bonded because the titian haired beauty agrees to an interview with her and Peter to discuss the fate of SI now that the CEO is effectively no longer in control. He’s hoping they can get a few comments from Obadiah, but Pepper won’t guarantee anything without speaking to the older man first.

They’re situated in Pepper’s office a week later, just starting the interview when the door bursts open and a disheveled looking Obadiah Stane stumbles in, eyes wide.

“They found him.”

* * *

The repulsor in his right glove sputters as he soars through the air, sheer panic flowing through him as he realizes that he’s _flying_...and then falling.

The suit fails, breaking apart as he pinwheels through the air, stomach lurching with the g-forces

slamming into him, breathless as he plows into the sand below. He’s dizzy and bruised and something in his right shoulder doesn’t feel right, but for the moment he lets his head fall back and his eyes close.

He’s free.

* * *

Two days he walks, sweltering heat in the day and freezing cold at night, until he’s barely able to stand upright, sand in every crevice of his body, blinding him and burning his throat and he wants to _go home_.

He doesn’t have the strength or the moisture to cry, but he sobs breathlessly nonetheless, chest aching as he takes another stumbling step. A roaring sound has him whipping around, searching for the sound, pulse hammering as he imagines that it’s the Ten Rings—they’ve found him and he’s going to die, and then something bursts over the sand dune ahead and it takes a moment to comprehend what it is.

He sinks to his knees, sobbing for real this time, waving both his hands at the Huey buzzing past and then back again, emblazoned with an American flag and god, god he’s never seen _anything_ so beautiful in his whole life.

A figure jumps out of the helicopter and runs over and when it gets closer he can see it’s Rhodey. He sobs again and keels forward, barely missing planting on his face in the sand, but Rhodey catches him, pulls him close and holds him.

His fingers clutch at the jumpsuit Rhodey wears, sobs wracking his chest as his best friend pets a hand over his hair.

“Shh, Tones, I got you, I got you,” Rhodey soothes, holding onto him firmly as he lifts Tony to his feet. Tony grabs his shoulder and steps back, swaying a little, so he can stare him in the eye.

“You got me,” he whispers, voice raw and thick, but Rhodey just nods, smiling softly, a little sadly.

“I got you.”


	6. The Times They Are A'Changin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter and Tony see each other for the first time since his return, Tony has a lot of feelings regarding his survival, and something is rotten in the state of New York.

Tony eyes Rhodey the whole flight to Ramstein; his best friend looks pale and exhausted and thinner than he remembers and a pit of worry lodges in his stomach. The nurses and doctor aboard the flight get him into a sling after setting his dislocated shoulder and check out the various scrapes and bruises he has, marveling at his good shape.

He doesn’t let them see the arc reactor and though the glow of it is obvious, he doesn’t want the military seeing it anymore than he can manage. He’s seen what his weapons in the wrong hands can do, the idea of the military getting this technology and weaponizing it sends a chill down his spine.

By the tenth time Rhodey catches him staring he smirks and blows him a kiss, “Miss me honey bear?” he teases and Tony cracks a grin, shaking his head as he leans back against the pillow, the painkillers and fluids making their way into his system makes him sleepy but he’s afraid to close his eyes and wake back up in the cave—all of this just a dream.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he answers honestly, smile dropping as Rhodey’s smirk fades and he holds out his hand for Tony to take. He clasps it tightly and fights tears, hating how close to the surface his emotions are.

He’s normally used to keeping it all behind a mask, his public face perfected at seven years old, so he shouldn’t be having this much trouble coming up with that trademark ten thousand watt smile and smug exterior, but it feels like a weight that he just can’t carry right now.

Rhodey holds his hand tightly and he notices the tremor in it and the lines around his eyes that are new and concern rushes through him anew. “Rhodes, you look like shit,” he tells him baldly, “what’s going on?”

Rhodey hesitates and then gives him a wry smile, his mask nearly perfect if it wasn’t directed at someone whose known him for nearly thirty years. “Been looking for you for three months man, had to kiss a lotta ass to keep the search going,” he murmurs, smirk slipping as he sighs and shakes his head.

Seeing the toll his kidnapping has taken on his best friend makes something thick lodge in his throat and has to close his eyes to steady himself. He stays that way while Rhodey catches him up on the news from home, the words becoming a comforting drone as he relaxes and slips into a doze.

He dreams of Yinsen, smiling through agony and bloody teeth— _don’t waste it, don’t waste your life_ he pleads, hand bloody where it’s reaching out to him.

He wakes with a start at the landing gear descending and glances around wildly when he realizes that Rhodey isn’t by his side. Craning, he curses the strain in his back and neck and finally spots him, sitting in one of the jump seats while a nurse crouches in front of him, a worried expression on her face.

He doesn’t get to ask what’s happening because then they’re landing and he and Rhodey are being shuffled off to see yet more doctors. These ones insist on seeing his chest and after staring at the reactor for a moment, proceed to question him on his injuries and the treatment given to him.

They conclude that he’s still dehydrated enough for worry, has a mild concussion, three strained ribs and a hyperextension in his right knee. All things considered, very good condition for someone held in a cave for three months.

He gets three square meals and they stay the night before flying back to New York and as he watches the sky turn pink from thirty thousand feet he finds that he’s apprehensive about returning. Everything was simple in the cave—work on the suit and plan an escape, eat when given food, sleep when the lights were turned off, try to stay alive.

Going back to New York means facing the fact that someone at SI or the military is selling his weapons to terrorists and he’s not sure he’s ready to face that yet.

He glances over at Rhodey and frowns; the older man is sleeping again, but his color is better today. Whatever the doctors in Ramstein gave him seems to have done the trick. There’s still something wrong, he knows his best friend too well to be fooled by a grin and a placating lie.

Staring back out the window he drags his fingers over the surface, shuddering at the freezing air just a few inches away. The cold seeps into him and he pulls his hand away, feeling as it settles into his bones.

He wishes for a moment for the heat of the desert, and then shudders, pulling his jacket tighter around him.

He’s never going back there again.

* * *

Peter’s in the back of the room, watching as every reporter in New York crowds closer to the podium, waiting to hear from the newly returned Tony Stark.

Two days ago Pepper and Obadiah had left them behind at Stark Industries in their rush to get to Tony, and when his home phone had rung this morning with a call from MJ that Tony had ordered Pepper to pull together a press conference, he had grabbed his camera and his tape recorder and gotten to SI as fast as he could.

It apparently wasn’t fast enough because as the taxi dropped him off he could see news cameras everywhere and security that looked less than pleased to see so many journalists in one place. He edged his way in and caught Pepper’s eye, giving her a weak smile hello before moving to stand by one of the large structural pillars, giving the rest of the reports room to crowd forward so he could get a clean shot when Tony stepped into the room. The reporters were from every newspaper and TV station in the tri-state area, and if he wasn’t mistaken, there were some national correspondents there as well.

The room explodes into sound when Stark enters the room, bruised and hunched, mouth pressed together in a thin line. Peter watches him approach the podium, gaze tracing worriedly over the bruises on his face and the limp in his step—there’s a sling on his right arm, holding it in place and when the older man sinks to the ground with a pained smile, Peter watches as the group of reporters and journalists join him at his request.

He stays standing, lifting his camera to take a few pictures, and when he lowers it, the billionaire’s gaze meets his. It’s a small infinity in which they stare at each other, and then the older man’s lips quirk into something resembling a smile and his eyes warm and then he’s looking away and speaking softly in between bites of his take out burger and fries.

“I never got to say goodbye to Dad,” he murmurs to Obadiah, and Peter’s brows rise at the painfully personal admission. The older man nods and claps a hand to Tony’s shoulder, giving him a sympathetic smile. “I never got to say goodbye to my father,” Tony says, addressing the room this time.

His brows furrow and he shakes his head slowly, “There's questions that I would have asked him. I would have asked him how he felt about what this company did,” he explains, taking another bite of burger before crumpling up the paper and chewing slowly, thoughtfully. He sips his drink and clears his throat when he’s done, “If he was conflicted, if he ever had doubts.”

He smiles faintly, sadly, “Or maybe he was every inch the man we all remember from the newsreels.” There’s a long moment where he looks like he might come undone, throat working as his eyes glitter, and then he’s ducking his head and shaking it ruefully, “I saw young Americans killed by the very weapons I created to defend them and protect them. And I saw that I had become part of a system that is comfortable with zero accountability.”

Tony seems to settle himself, voice growing firm and when a younger man at the front of the room raises his hand and calls out, “Mr. Stark!” Tony nods and points to him.

“Hey, Ben.”

_Ben_ Peter knows that name, he’s from the New York Times. He leans forward with interest, gaze darting between Ben and Tony, watching the byplay with the rest of the room.

“What happened over there?” Ben asks softly.

Tony nods and his mouth presses together before he sighs and answers. “I had my eyes opened. I came to realize that I have more to offer this world than just making things that blow up. And that is why, effective immediately, I am shutting down the weapons manufacturing division of Stark Industries until such a time as I can decide what the future of the company will be—”

Obadiah is on his feet, interrupting Tony, grinning and laughing grimly as the reporters launch to their feet, shouting questions as the two men talk over each other.

“What we should take away from this is that Tony's back—!”

“What direction it should take,—”

“And he's healthier than ever!—”

“one that I'm comfortable with and—”

“We're going to have a little internal discussion—”

“is consistent with the highest good for this country, as well.”

“and we'll get back to you with the follow-up.”

Peter watches with interest as the older man and Pepper hustle Tony from the podium, making a beeline for the doors behind him. He takes a few steps into their path and a moment later Tony sees him, steps slowing till they’re face to face and he can see the bruises up close, the stitches on his brow, the exhausted, haunted look in his eyes.

He’s never seen someone look so haunted and beaten down outside a combat zone, but then, he thinks that that’s exactly where Tony’s been for three months. The older man stares down at him, gaze curious and assessing. His lips curl faintly and he nods slowly at Peter before reaching out and tugging gently at the sleeve of his jacket.

“I know where Gulmira is now,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper and if they weren’t so close, he’d never have heard it.

A moment later security is pushing Peter aside roughly and Tony casts an apologetic look back, and then he’s gone.

* * *

After the press conference he’s chivvied back to the penthouse, and by the time he collapses on his couch, he’s exhausted down to the bone. Pepper eyes him worriedly as she brings him something to help him relax, a painkiller too, and he only realizes he’s shaking when her face softens and she sinks to her knees in front of him, taking the pills gently from his hand.

She wraps his hand in hers and leans forward, pressing her forehead into his and that’s it, that’s all it takes for him to break. He shudders and sobs, and she makes soft soothing noises as she wraps him in her arms.

He cries until his eyes are gritty and sore and then lets himself be guided to his bed. Pepper kicks off her heels and brings him water, makes him take the pills, and then curls up on the bed beside him. He watches her, gazes into her stormy eyes, limbs softening and mind going cloudy as the pills take effect.

When he falls asleep, it’s with her hand on his chest, the steady thrum of the reactor the only way he knows he’s alive.

* * *

_Tony hides at the top of the stairs as his parents argue, voices low and angry. His hand throbs, hot and tight and he tucks it against his chest, wincing as it brushes against his shirt._

_“He’s a child Howard! You handed him something hot and he took it because you told him to, how can you possible be angry with him for dropping it?”_

_“Because! He knows how delicate that experiment was! I only let him help because you whined at me—and don’t think I don’t know where he gets **that** from! If he can’t listen and do as he’s told, he shouldn’t be in the lab!”_

_“He is **six** Howard! Show him a little compassion and patience!”_

_He hears his father scoff and then the clink of a glass, the silence drawing out for a long time until he hears his father make a low noise and then the sound of a scuffle, a pained gasp from his mother and then the wet sound of lips on skin._

_“The boy has to be strong, I won’t have you babying him,” Howard hisses and when he hears fabric rending and his mother’s sharp gasp of pain his stomach lurches, fear invading his chest._

_He turns and crawls a few steps, the sounds from the study chasing him until he’s locked in his room, tucked beneath the covers, clutching his stuffed bear to his chest as he cries silently._

_He doesn’t know how much time passes, but eventually he hears his door open and then a weight settles on his bed. His mother pulls back the covers and slides into bed with him, gathers him close and holds him to her chest, breaths unsteady and too quick._

_He can feel her shaking and fights tears; his father had hurt her again._

_He falls asleep to the smell of Chanel and blood._

* * *

The penthouse is dark and quiet and for a moment everything feels normal, until he walks past the windows and catches a glimpse of himself; clutching a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, too thin, pale and exhausted, the arc reactor glowing faintly beneath his shirt. He’s done that everyday since he got back, startled by his appearance, scared by the man he sees looking back at him, and he’s just...so fucking _tired_. 

Obie’s tried to convince him to hand over the technology so they could pull the company’s stock out of the freefall that it’s been in since his announcement three days ago, but he’d refused.

He’s seen what his tech in the wrong hands can do, and he knows the possibilities this new technology holds and without knowing how or why his weapons ended up in the hands of terrorists in the first place, he’s not giving SI a damn thing. With a heavy sigh he strips and stands in front of the mirror in his bathroom, staring at his bruised and broken body, staring at what he’s become.

His beard is trimmed back from the wild bush it had been but it still itches and he hates having yet another reminder of his captivity when this one at least is easily gotten rid of. His fingers run around the edges of the reactor, wincing at the still tender skin. This one isn’t so easy to get rid of.

It’s ugly, his chest, marred by red scars and puckered skin, the glow of the reactor throwing them into sharp relief. He’s lost weight too, his ribs are more visible than they’ve been since he was 15 and still in college, drinking too much and not eating unless Rhodey made him. The reactor core glows in his chest, throwing all these things into sharp relief and he inhales, wincing when his lungs protest.

“JARVIS, scan and give me diagnostics on the reactor and the surrounding tissue,” he murmurs, turning away from his reflection. There a moment of silence and then a blue light flickers over his body, scanning up and down a few times before the crisp, familiar voice of JARVIS responds.

“It appears that your rib cage has been modified to make room for the reactor sir. It would appear that the first three ribs on either side have been shortened to accommodate the core. There also appears to be a significant reduction in lung capacity along with damage to the atrial wall of your heart. It would be inadvisable to participate in any strenuous activity until your body is given a chance to heal sir, however, I venture to say that the reduced lung capacity will remain.”

Tony nods slowly, that’s about what the doctors at Ramstein had said. He pulls up the x-rays he’d taken with him and stares at them, swallowing hard when he sees the damage up close and personal. It’s in the core of him, all his most vital places damaged and it makes his chest hurt for an entirely different reason because, who, who could ever look at this and not be horrified?

_He’s_ horrified.

He sucks down another swallow of whiskey and hisses at the burn, glares at his reflection as his fingers tighten around the glass in his hand till his knuckles are white. He loathes what he sees in the mirror, hates the broken man he’s been turned into and he can’t stand to see it another second.

He doesn’t realize he’s heaved the glass in his hand against the mirror till it’s shattering with a sharp, cracked sound, pieces of it falling into the sink. His chest heaves painfully as he stares at his fractured image, shaking and gasping for air as his lungs burn and his chest aches.

The glass that remains in the frame is shattered, sharp edges of it turning his image into a funhouse parody—but there’s nothing fun about this.

He’s broken, just like this mirror and no matter how badly he wants to fix himself, he’ll never be the same. Pieces are missing and all the glue in the world won’t hold him together.

Swallowing hard he fights the swell of nausea and loses the battle, lunging for the toilet as his meager dinner makes a violent return. Shuddering, he spits and slumps to the floor, head lolling back against the wall as he presses a hand to his chest, the faint hum of the reactor warm against his palm.

“Sir, there is a marked increase in your stress levels, shall I call for Miss Potts?”

Rubbing a hand over his face, he shakes his head and makes a low noise, “No J, she doesn’t need to see this. Put on music please,” he murmurs, smirking faintly when _Somebody To Love_ starts playing.

He’s slow to rise to his feet again, wincing as his chest aches and his lung feel weak and shivery. Everything hurts and he can’t look at himself in the mirror again, it’s, it’s just...he huffs out a breath, “J, have the mirrors removed in the penthouse,” he orders softly and turns away, turns on his shower and stands under the ten different directional sprays, the constant white noise helping the remaining stress slip away from his shoulders.

When he feels clean and loose, he dries off carefully, wincing as his ribs and back ache. His knee pinches as he walks and he pauses at the counter where Pepper’s helpfully laid out the steroids and painkillers he’s been prescribed to help with the swelling and pain in his shoulder, knee and chest. He orders J to turn off the music now that he’s a little calmer and less panicked, drowning in emotions.

He grabs the bottles and limps out to his bedroom, pouring himself a scotch—in direct violation of medical and Pepper orders—and tosses back a handful of pills, chasing them with the warm burn of alcohol. He sits on his couch and slides down a little, eyes growing hooded as he stares out at the lights of the city and the pills take effect.

It’s far too bright and earlier when he’d been surrounded by lights and people and sounds he’d nearly been overwhelmed. This, the silence, is much better. He knows Pepper and Rhodey had been worried about leaving him alone, and he’d had to nearly forcibly have Happy removed from the penthouse, but right now, he can’t be around them.

As he stares out at the lights shimmering, he realizes there’s only one person he wants to see right now. He hesitates for a moment and then reaches for the phone on the side table, pressing four to connect with security. It’s only a moment before Happy answers, already worried and offering to come help with whatever Tony needs.

“I need a ride. I’ve got someplace I need to go,” he tells Happy, “Leaving in ten,” he mutters before dropping the receiver and tossing back the last of his scotch. He rises slowly and pauses, glancing down at himself before shuffling to the closet to pull on something so he’s not quite so indecent.

* * *

Peter’s sprawled on the floor of his apartment studying the photos he’d taken three days ago at the press conference and those he’d taken at the ill fated protest. He’s shared everything from that day with the police and FBI, but he’s heard nothing about if his photos captured anyone suspicious or are helping in the investigation.

There’s scant news, and when he tries to find out more from the police or FBI he’s turned away with polite _no comment_ ’s. He’d think it’s personal if every other reporter he’s talked to hadn’t _also_ been shut out. With a heavy sigh he packs up his photos and camera and rolls to his feet, staring out the window of his shitty little apartment at the lights and sounds of New York nightlife.

Turning away, he grabs his keys and clatters down the fire escape and over to the small shed that serves as his garage and workshop. The lock sticks and he puts his shoulder into it when he pushes the door open, only stumbling a little. Flicking the lights on, he stands, staring at the tarp covered bulk in the center of the room.

Sighing softly he tugs the tarp off and shakes it out, coughing at the dust that rises out. He folds it carefully and turns on the radio, humming along as he grabs his stool and toolbox and heads back over to the broken piece of machinery.

The motorcycle had been Uncle Ben’s before he got injured in Vietnam and had been medically discharged. After that he hadn’t been able to ride it and had eventually shut it away, choosing to ignore a time when his body hadn’t been too broken to do the things he loved.

Peter had watched his Uncle die in inches for years, first his body, then his soul. When his aunt had called and told him that Ben had overdosed on a bottle of painkillers it hadn’t come as a surprise.

It had come just a year after Howard and Maria Stark’s deaths, and even though it feels like a lifetime ago, it’s only been four years since he was able to see his Uncle and not some cold granite headstone.

Swallowing hard, he shakes off the maudlin thoughts and starts a thorough evaluation of the bike. He’s got so many fond memories of working with Ben on restoring the bike, and though it makes something beneath his ribs pinch, he cracks open a beer and toasts Ben silently before turning his attention to the bike.

By the time he hears tires on gravel and the near silent thrum of an engine he’s covered in grease and sweat, elbows deep in the bike. He ignores it because it’s likely just his neighbor coming or going, and he’s _almost_ —he grunts and tugs the piece free he’s been trying to get loose for ten minutes—there.

“Is that a ‘73 Bonneville?”

The knock and voice at the open door startles him and he curses as his knuckles catch on a jagged edge of metal, ripping through his skin so hot coppery blood wells out. He whirls, glaring and then registers that the person he’s glaring at is Tony Stark.

The older man lifts a brow and smiles apologetically, “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to startle you,” he murmurs. Peter’s hands are clenched by his sides and when they relax the line of pain across his knuckle draws his attention back to the still bleeding injury.

Instinctively he jams his knuckle into his mouth and sucks away the blood, grimacing at the coppery taste. “‘S fine,” he mumbles around the appendage, turning away to search for the —

“Here let me, it’s my fault anyway,” Tony says as he holds out Peter’s first aid kit.

Well shit.

Peter studies him for a beat and then nods slowly, leans against the workstation and slips his finger out of this mouth with a wet popping sound. Tony’s eyes are dark as they follow the motion, gaze lingering on Peter’s mouth for a minute before slipping away.

Unexpected heat curls in his belly and when Tony takes his hand to inspect the wound, he fights back a shiver at the sensation of callused fingers on his skin. Tony’s fingers are careful as he wipes away blood with a wet wipe, eyes lifting when Peter hisses at the burn, the corners of his lips turning up faintly.

“Sorry kid.”

“‘M not a kid.”

It’s a reflexive response—despite being 25 he’s been told he has a baby face but every time he looks in the mirror all he sees is dark haunted eyes and exhaustion peering back at him.

A low chuckle comes from Tony’s throat and his gaze is warm when it lifts to Peter’s face once more.

“You’re right, you’re _definitely_ not a kid,” Tony agrees, and there’s just enough suggestion in his voice and gaze that Peter flushes and glances away. He’s suddenly aware of how close they’re standing and it’s not helping that Tony’s thumb is idly stroking along the curve of his palm, heat spreading with the touch.

He studies the older man, noting the lines of strain around his eyes, the lingering bruises on his cheek and under his eye, the cuts and scrapes that have begun to heal and thinks back to how he’d limped slightly and wonders just how deeply the injuries go.

If there are things unseen, beneath the skin and well tailored clothes, bleeding just beneath the surface.

The band aid goes on and they stare at each other for a long moment, his hand still in Tony’s, and then the older man steps back and clears his throat, nodding toward the motorcycle, “So, Bonneville?” he asks again.

Peter comes unstuck from the moment and nods slowly, “70,” he replies before slipping away from the counter and heading back to the bike in question. He sprawls on the floor, legs out in a V as he wipes his brow with the back of his hand and then points to his stool, “Why don’t you sit Mr. Stark,” he offers, trying to remember his manners.

The older man nods and then sits slowly, wincing and pressing a hand to his ribs. Stark spins on the stool with a dopey grin before stilling and leaning forward to study what Peter’s been working on. “Carburetor?” he suggests and Peter nods, reaching for his wrench once more.

“Among other things,” he agrees.

They sit in silence for a few minutes before he glances up and finds Tony watching him, gaze steady and curious. “Can I ask why you’re here Mr. Stark?” he murmurs, turning his attention to the bike for a moment so he doesn’t scrape the hell out of his knuckles again.

“Those pictures you showed me, I met the men who did those things,” he replies, the non sequitur taking Peter by surprise. He looks up, wrench dangling from numb fingers and for the second time tonight, studies the billionaire sitting in his shed. He’s got a gleam to his gaze that speaks to intoxication of some kind and when he shifts on the stool, winces again.

“I heard,” he finally replies, sitting back so he can wipe his hands on his already grease stained jeans. “It sounded like a rough time from the SI press release,” he comments mildly, watching as the older man’s brow furrows before he smirks faintly, but there’s no humor in his gaze and Peter can see he’s struggling with something.

“It was...hell,” the older man murmurs, gaze cast aside. He clears his throat and Peter recognizes a man on the edge of tears, too embarrassed to say anything so he rises to his knees and stands with a wince, leans over to grab two beers from the small fridge he keeps stocked in the shed, hands one to Tony and seats himself back by the bike.

He holds his bottle out for the man to tap his against and then smiles softly, “Welcome home,” he murmurs genuinely.

Tony nods and takes a long pull from the bottle, makes a face and then shakes his head at the questioning look Peter sends him, “Not much of a beer man. Whiskey, scotch, bourbon, sure.”

“I think I have some whiskey in the house, if you’d prefer,” Peter offers, “I doubt it’s what you’re used to though,” he admits and immediately flushes when Tony grins and shakes his head.

“Thanks kid, this’ll do,” he says, waving the offer away. Peter shoots him a disapproving look over the nickname and the older man grins, shakes his head, “Sorry, sorry, is it ok if I call you Peter?” he asks, fingers toying with the label on his beer, slowly peeling it away from the glass.

Peter nods and starts wiping down his tools, makes notes in a leather bound notepad of what parts he’ll need and mentally tallies it up; if he doesn’t spend on taxis or lunch he should be able to afford them along with his rent and bills. “How long have you been working on the bike?” Tony asks curiously, politely, and he’s jolted out of his head and mentally kicks himself for being so rude.

“About nine years. My Uncle Ben and I worked on it together before he died. It’s been…awhile since I put any time into it,” he admits, wiping his hands on a rag before he stands and throws the tarp back over the bike. Leaning on the counter, he rubs a hand over his jaw and smirks unhappily, “He bought it in ‘70 and used it to teach me more about engineering. He didn’t have a formal education in it or anything, he was just really good with engines. He helped keep the helicopters and Jeeps running when he was in Vietnam,” he says, shaking his head before taking a long sip of beer.

“How long ago did he pass?”

Peter snorts at that because, _pass_ is such a banal and bland way to describe death. “Four years ago. He was in a lot of pain and after your father died the company didn’t want to keep a disabled vet around when he couldn’t keep up with the younger, more able bodied men. They fired him a year later and he bounced around working little jobs here and there and then, eventually, he killed himself.”

He hears the sharp intake of breath from Tony and looks up, meets his gaze steadily, “My aunt blamed you and your company for a long time. I knew you personally hadn’t made the decision, but still,” he shakes his head and sighs, “it wasn’t right.”

“I’m sorry. If I had known…”

“You wouldn’t have asked?”

“No, I would have made sure he kept his job.”

Peter looks up at him skeptically, “Really? The man who was more interested in the next pretty young thing and attended more parties than board meetings? That guy?” To his shame, Peter sees Tony flinch and duck his head, shoulders stiff and he exhales slowly, gathering his emotions before he speaks. “I’m sorry Mr. Stark, that wasn’t fair. I…” he sighs and shakes his head, at a loss for words.

“I should go,” Tony mutters, standing suddenly with a grimace, looking uncertain and younger than Peter’s ever seen him appear. He rises quickly and reaches out, fingers closing around the older man’s wrist, holding him in place as they stare at each other.

“I’m sorry, I’m being an ass,” he murmurs wryly, “why don’t we go inside for some of that whiskey,” he offers gently, smiling hesitantly. Tony stares down at him, gaze flickering to where Peter’s still holding onto him, and then nods slowly. He has to remind himself to let go of Tony’s wrist and still his fingers peel away too slowly for propriety.

He turns off the lights and locks up before leading Tony up the stairs and into the apartment, roots through the cupboard till he finds the whiskey Peggy had bought him after his first big article got published. He smiles faintly, recalling those early days when he was freshly back from Vietnam and his photos and stories were making his name known in the newspaper business.

Handing a worn and chipped glass to Tony, he once again raises his glass and lets the other man tap his against it before he speaks, “To new beginnings,” he says, feeling poetic and a little silly, but Tony nods and sips, brows lifting when he tastes the whiskey.

Tony drinks his faster than Peter, and soon they’re a little loose limbed and heavy lidded, sitting on the fire escape while Tony talks. He tells Peter about the ambush, watching his own weapons be used against him to kill kids in uniform and take him captive.

“And then I woke up in a cave while someone cracked my chest open and picked shrapnel out. I-I didn’t think…” he shudders and takes a long sip of whiskey, eyes glazed with memory, “I thought I’d die...christ, I _wanted_ to die, the pain…” he purses his lips and looks away, overcome.

Peter reaches out without thinking, hand landing atop Tony’s on the metal of the landing, squeezing firmly. “I’m glad you didn’t,” he says, and when did he get so close to Tony? There’s a scant few inches separating their shoulders, and in the lights of the city he can see Tony staring at him with a dark, heated look that makes his blood warm and butterflies fill his belly.

Tony’s gaze flickers down to his lips and he swallows hard, licks them unconsciously and then takes a hasty sip of whiskey when Tony’s tongue mimics the motion on his own lips.

“I was in Vietnam,” he offers suddenly, breaking the heated moment, lifting his hand from Tony’s, “hold on,” he mutters, leaving his drink behind as he crawls back into the apartment and hunts his trunk out from the back of his closet. He grabs the photos and then pauses at the bright yellow package at the bottom of the trunk and grabs it too.

Clambering out onto the landing, he turns and leans against the brick of the building, shoulder bumping against Tony’s. He flicks the yellow package open and pulls the last of his cigarettes out, offers one to Tony.

“Shit’ll kill you kid.”

He snorts and nods, “I know, that’s why I quit. I was saving these for when the war ended, but, I dunno, it just didn’t seem right after. Not with,” he swallows hard, “not with how many people I—we lost.”

To Peter’s surprise, Tony pulls a lighter from his jacket pocket, flicking it and holding it out so Peter can lean forward and light the cigarette that’s clenched between his teeth. He looks up through his lashes at Tony and watches as the older man’s gaze flicks down to his lips and then back up. He thinks he even sees a blush on his burnished gold cheeks, but maybe that’s just Peter’s libido hoping for something other than his hand to take care of it.

After a few silent drags that fill his lungs with the familiar ache of nicotine, Peter shows him the pictures of the unit he was embedded with, grinning as he points out Peggy, Bucky, Sam, Natasha, Dum Dum, and a few others. There’s a photo of them together, grinning at the camera, and he stares at it fondly, fingers tracing over the faces slowly.

“So, Natasha, that’s the one who isn’t smiling, she was called the Black Widow because she was so deadly. They never saw her coming.” His finger trails over to Bucky, “Bucky. He lost his arm after a Viet Cong attack, Peggy had to amputate in the field and he would have died but she wouldn’t let him. They fell in love in a war zone and when they came back they met Steve and it’s been the three of them for, god, four years now?” he murmurs thoughtfully.

“And what about you?”

Peter smirks and sips his whiskey, feeling delightfully light and loose, “I was just a journalist, but I learned pretty damn quick how to fire a gun. I was with the Commandos for two years and I saw more than I ever wanted to,” he admits softly. He looks up at Tony, “I would climb the trees and scout ahead, let them know if there were any traps or ambushes and they started calling me Spiderman,” he says with a soft laugh.

Tony grins and taps a finger against his lip, “That’s good, I’m gonna call you that,” he teases, laughing when Peter nudges his shoulder and mutters _no you’re not_. “It’s nice that you made such good friends in the midst of all that,” he murmurs, voice going melancholy and eyes distant. Peter’s seen that face too many times before and leans a little more firmly into Tony’s shoulder, drawing him back to the present.

“You survived,” he reminds Tony, “You’re here.”

Tony nods and looks grim, “I had a friend...he was the one who saved my life. He helped me escape and died doing it.” He shakes his head, lips pinched together so tight they’re white before he takes a long sip of the whiskey, huffing at the burn before emptying his glass.

“Were you scared?”

The question takes Peter by surprise; they’d lapsed into a deep silence and he’d thought Tony would surely leave after his admission, but instead, he’s asked this question that sounds more like a roundabout confession.

“Yea. Every minute of the day. I saw good men and women fighting and dying and there wasn’t anything I could do except take pictures and write stories and occasionally pick up a gun when somebody died and they needed back up. Shit Tony, for the first month I was sure I was going to die every minute of every day, and then I was with the Commandos in a firefight and the guy next to me was shot and his blood was on my face and they were going to die if I didn’t _do something_ , so I picked up his rifle and started firing.”

He takes a deep breath because that’s the first time he’s talked about that day in _years_. He chases the bitter memory with whiskey and shudders, gunfire flashing behind his lids and screams ringing in his ears and then—

“I killed people when I escaped. I don’t know how many. I can’t even see their faces and I think sometimes that I should, you know? I should remember the faces of the people I killed, but I only ever see Yinsen, smiling and telling me not to waste my life.”

Peter props his elbow on his knee and half turns to look at Tony, studying the way the moonlight turns his skin luminous, the bruises on his face stark against the skin and he thinks _beautiful_ —wishes he could take his picture so he can remember this moment forever. Tony gazes back at him and they stay there, stuck in the moment, whiskey warm and bonded by emotional trauma and it shouldn’t feel as right as it does, but he finds he can’t move, doesn’t want to even think about leaving this moment.

Slipping a hand beneath his grease stained shirt, he lifts his dog tags out and shows them to Tony, breathing a little unsteadily as the older man leans in to read them, the scent of his cologne warm and heady. Peter inhales a little deeper and catches the scent of something on his skin that’s like burnt sugar and he wonders for a breathless moment if that’s what he tastes like too.

“They issued embedded journalists tags so if we died they’d have something to identify us, something to send back to our families if our bodies were left behind during a firefight.”

Tony huffs and traces his fingers over the raised lettering of his name; PETER PARKER. “You’re one hell of a journalist kid,” he comments, smirking when Peter shakes his head and gives him a rueful look at the nickname.

He realizes how close they’re leaning in towards each other and his breath hitches, skin warming as Tony’s free hand shifts, resting heavily on his knee for a moment before it slides up his thigh and they lean in toward each other, his heart thundering so loud in his ears that he can’t hear anything but the sound of it.

“Boss?”

There’s a shout from below and Tony jerks back, looks down through the rusted grating and rolls his eyes, “Yea Happy?”

“Just makin sure everything’s good.”

“Yea Happy. Everything’s good.”

Tony rolls his eyes at Peter and they share a lingering look before Peter invites him in to see a few other photos from his time in Vietnam and then it’s past three am and Tony’s passed out on his couch and Peter is too tired to move from where he’s leaning back against the rough wool fabric, eyes heavy and gritty.

When he wakes up the next morning with a raging hangover, Tony’s gone already, but there’s a note on his coffee table that makes him smile slowly, a warmth curling through his chest as he reads it, over and over again.

_Spiderman,_

_Thanks for the drink and smoke. Maybe next time we can do it at my place? I’ve got something I’d like to show you, if you’ll indulge me. Have a few thoughts on those pictures you showed me awhile back, if you’d be open to discussing them. See you soon kid._

_TS_


	7. Father and Son

_His father cuffs his head, cursing at Tony’s error. “Jesus, can’t you do anything right?” Howard spits and Tony shrinks back, hands shaking as he sticks them behind his back and stands straight, waiting for his punishment._

_“Clean that mess up!” Howard orders, shoving him hard enough to send him sprawling to the ground, shards of glass slicing through the skin of his arm and ribs. He bites his bottom lip till it bleeds so he doesn’t cry, shaking as he cleans up the glass and picks it from his skin._

_Howard rolls his eyes at the wounds on Tony’s arm and throws him a dirty rag, “Don’t you dare get blood on anything,” he threatens._

_Tony nods and wipes his arm, copper in his mouth as he fights a whimper of pain. His father turns his attention back to his work, the pattern of rain on the window soothing as Tony sits, waiting to be given something to do._

_His shirt slowly soaks with blood and he grows lightheaded, slumping against a wall as his lids flutter shut, his ribs burning with pain._

_It’s not till later when Jarvis finds him passed out, gasping in horror and yanking up his shirt, does he realize how deep the wounds on his ribs go._

_That’s the day he learns how to keep a secret—wounds bound tight and a solemn promise from Jarvis that he won’t say anything to his mother._

_It’s the first of many secrets between he and his only friend, the burden of them more than any eight year old should have to bear._

* * *

Looking out a rainy window was a little like looking at one of those optical illusion books; unfocus and stare past the haziness and eventually things took shape.

Tony’s been staring out the window for the past—ten minutes? Fifteen?—he’s not really sure how many minutes have passed this way, with Obadiah trying to convince him to let R&D see the miniature arc reactor, to change his mind on the new direction for SI, but so far Tony’s done an admirable job of ignoring him—and nothing’s taking shape except a pair of familiar whiskey eyes and pretty pink lips.

He’s thought a lot about the almost kiss with he and Peter Parker and he’s sure now, that if Happy hadn’t interrupted, he would have gotten a taste of that luscious mouth. They hadn’t talked much about how his weapons ended up with the Ten Rings but he’s hopeful that the young man will take him up on his offer and come by so they can talk.

“Obie, I’m done talking about this,” he murmurs, cutting off his longtime friend and mentor, turning away from the window to frown at the older man. He rubs his chest where the reactor sits, wincing at the lingering pain and breathlessness,“I’ve made my decision and I’m not gonna change my mind,” he tells Obie, shoving his hands into his pockets and lifting his brows mockingly.

Obie’s brow furrows, “Tony, the board is talking about locking you out,” he says with a heavy sigh that Tony doesn’t quite think is genuine. Obie’s been hounding him since he got back for information, for the reactor, anything to keep SI on the track it’s been on for decades.

“That’s unfortunate,” he replies flatly, turning back to gaze out the window. It is, because he knows this is the right decision for the future of the company and quite frankly, the world. He remembers the words he tossed in Peter’s face and flushes, embarrassed by his own hubris and ignorance; _I guarantee you the day weapons are no longer needed to keep the peace, we'll start making bricks and beams for baby hospitals_.

“C’mon Tony, why don’t you show me what you’re working on down in the lab,” Obie wheedles, “Give me something to give to the board.” He sounds exasperated and for a moment Tony almost feels bad, but he can’t, he can’t allow anyone to see the suit he’s designing.

“Sorry Obie, no can do,” he murmurs, already stepping away and heading for the elevator. Pepper shoots him a disgruntled look but doesn’t follow and as the elevator doors slide shut he sees the pair of them standing together, talking too softly for him to hear.

Tapping in his access code to the lab, he claps his hands and grins; “Alright kids, let get to work,” he calls, smiling when Dum-E and U chirp and whistle; “Welcome back sir,” JARVIS greets him and he grins—it’s good to be back.

* * *

Peter means to go see Tony, but his aunt calls and asks him to help with his uncle’s VA benefits, and then he spends a week on the phone and in person battling bureaucracy and deadlines for the paper take up the rest of his time so before he knows it it’s the weekend and he’s helping May clean out the attic and taking uncle Ben’s clothes to the Goodwill.

Monday morning there’s a note at his desk that a TS called for him and left a message-- _Hey Spiderman, swing by sometime soon, I miss that smile._

Peter grins and flushes, thinks back to the moment when he’d been so sure Tony was going to kiss him and shivers a little. He wants another opportunity to see the man, maybe talk some more about the war and the Stark weapons that went astray, maybe talk about other things and really get to know the man he’s read so much about in the papers.

He hides the slip of paper in his pocket before he goes in to Jameson’s office and finds out he’s going back to Gulmira for a follow up report on the continued violence there and he’s not sure if he’s scared or excited because now he has a chance to find out how Stark weapons wound up in the hands of terrorists.

He wonders for a moment if he should call Tony and tell him, but Jameson wants him on the first flight out, so he decides to leave calling Tony for later, perhaps when he’s made it to his hotel in country and had a chance to settle in. He rushes home and does some hasty laundry and packs a bag, shoving his wallet and passport into his coat pocket before he runs downstairs and grins, waving to Ned who’s idling at the corner in his grandmother’s Chevy.

“Two weeks in hell, huh?” Ned murmurs, fingers tapping on the wheel as he maneuvers through mid day traffic toward the airport. “I assume this is a dumb question, but is it safe?” he asks, shooting Peter a worried look.

“As safe as it can be. C’mon man, I survived Nam, I can handle this,” he reassures Ned, but deep down he knows this is _nothing_ like his time in Vietnam. Ned doesn’t say anything about it again, just listens as Peter tells him about Tony Stark coming to visit him, about the pictures he’d shown the man and the kiss that almost was.

Ned flashes him a grin as they pull up to the curb, families and loved ones exchanging embraces before departing for their flights. “So, you almost got kissed by your childhood—excuse me, _lifelong_ —crush and now you’re running off to Gulmira without a word to let him know how you feel.”

Ned quirks a brow and Peter shifts uncomfortably, “I mean, he’s a pretty busy guy,” he tries to deflect but Ned’s having none of it and gives him an exasperated look.

“I’m pretty sure he’d make time for you. C’mon man, call him before you get on the plane,” Ned encourages, sighing heavily when Peter just looks uncertain. The hug they exchange is tight and lingers for a moment before Ned pulls away and slaps him on the shoulder, “Pete, for once, do something for yourself. Call him,” he says solemnly before nudging Peter toward the rotating doors with a soft word of farewell.

Peter’s in a daze through check in and ticketing, wandering through the terminal till he sees his departure point and finds a seat in the corner to collapse into. He stares out the window at the blacktop, shimmering in the late August heat and thinks once more of what happened that night when Tony appeared in his doorway.

He can still recall the weight of Tony’s gaze on him, the warmth of his hand on Peter’s thigh, the scent of him on every inhale, teasing his senses. Swallowing hard, Peter shifts in his seat and rubs a hand over his face, forcing himself to relax and will away the heat pooled in his belly.

Leaning back, he closes his eyes and lets his mind wander, thinking about all the things he wants to ask Tony; what his favorite food is, what was it like growing up around Howard Stark, who had taught him how to work on and fix engines. He wants to know what makes Tony laugh, if he thinks the pizza from Rubino’s is better than Morty’s, and so many other small trivial things that make up who he is, and it’s in that moment, Peter realizes just how big his crush is on the older man.

Cursing himself softly, he scrubs a hand over his face and shakes his head at his own stupidity. Just because the man had tried to kiss him— _maybe_ , it’s not like he’s ever seen Tony with men before, so maybe it was nothing—didn’t mean the older man felt anything towards him other than curiosity.

He tries to focus on the days to come and the things he knows he’ll see; the last time had been bad enough, he’s sure that they won’t be much better now, and though he’d seen terrible things in Vietnam, Gulmira is a very different place and a very different time. He’s drifting on the hazy edge of sleep when an announcement breaks the hustle and bustle of the airport.

_“Call for Peter Parker, Peter Parker, please find the nearest courtesy phone.”_

Eyes jolting open, he sits upright and glances around till he sees the white phone in the corner and grabs his stuff before hurrying over. His palm is sweaty when he lifts the receiver, “Uh, hello? This is Peter Parker?”

He’s greeted by a low, warm chuckle and then a familiar voice murmurs, “Hey there Spiderman, you’re a hard person to get ahold of, I’m starting to wonder if you’re avoiding me.”

Heat fills his cheeks and he ducks his head, hiding his grin from anyone watching, “Mr. Stark, no, uh, I-I’m sorry,” he stutters, cursing his nerves and praying the older man doesn’t think he’s some dopey kid for sounding so hesitant. “This week was crazy for me, I meant to call and just didn’t get a chance.”

“That’s okay Pete, I enjoyed reading your latest story on the investigation into the bombing during the AIDS protest. Excellent stuff. I uh, wanted to invite you to the upcoming charity gala Stark Industries funds, it’s in two weeks, and I’d love it if you came.”

He’s stunned silent for so long the older man makes a questioning sound, “Kid? Still there?”

Peter chokes and nods, then presses a hand to his face because _duh_ , Mr. Stark can’t see him. “Yea, yea sorry Mr. Stark, uh, thank you, but I don’t really have anything nice enough to wear for something like that. I really really appreciate the offer,” he says enthusiastically, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he blushes.

“First, just call me Tony, and second, why don’t you let me handle what you’ll wear?”

“I, uh what?” Peter stutters, confused and excited.

Tony laughs and it sends a shiver over his spine, warm and wanting. “Let me take care of a suit for you, it’s the least I can do for you after you drew my attention to what’s been happening right under my nose with my weapons.”

Peter doesn’t think it’s a fair trade at all, especially considering he was just doing his job; there’s something about such freely given generosity that makes his skin itch. “I don’t, I don’t know Mr—Tony,” he stutters, “That’s, that’s very generous, but I mean, I can see you when I get back. I’ll just uh, drop by like you suggested.”

“Get back?” There’s a note of curiosity in the older man’s voice, “Where you goin?”

A long moment of silence passes and he finally manages to whisper, “Gulmira.”

This time the silence is weighty, thick and painful, and he closes his eyes, listens to Tony breathing over the line, unsteady and a little wet.

“Right, uh, well. Stay safe,” Tony murmurs thickly and Peter wonders if he’s trying not to cry; it sounds like it and something lodges in his throat at the idea of such a powerful man breaking down.

“I will. I’ll see you when I get back, I promise,” he replies quietly.

Tony makes a soft noise and then clears his throat, “I’ll hold you to that kid,” he murmurs, a note of teasing back in his voice.

“You can hold me to whatever you want Mr. Stark, just don’t call me kid,” he snarks and then flushes crimson as the innuendo in his words hits him. There’s a moment of silence and then Tony laughs, loud and bright and it makes Peter grin, biting his lip as he imagines what the older man looks like; head thrown back, eyes squinting around the edges as he laughs, the taut lines of his throat exposed.

Shivering, he curses himself and listens as the laughter dies down, warmth in Tony’s voice when he finally speaks. “Alright Peter, I might have to do that. Stay safe and I’ll see you soon.”

“Yea, uh, see you soon,” he agrees, a little numb as the line goes dead and he’s left holding the receiver, dial tone pulsing in his ear.

So….that happened.

* * *

Tony hunkers down, works on the suit prototype, discards what doesn’t work, plans out how to incorporate the new smaller arc reactor into something that can be used for clean energy, how to ensure that energy is shared with the people who need it the most, how to use it to change the direction of the company so the board doesn’t lock him out, because now SI’s all he has left.

He consumes himself with work, ignoring Obie and Pepper when the stop by to remind him of his obligations to SI—keeping his head low like they had said, letting them deal with the fallout of his decision, hoping that the board will see the sense in his decision, will see that this new direction will change not just the future of the company, but the future of the world.

He’s got plans to roll out internet access for everyone—they’d be the first company to get into the business and if they play their cards right the profits they’ll make will blow the weapons manufacturing out of the water.

Clean energy, internet, free clinics and charity—a better direction for him and the company and he thinks distantly as he works that his mother would approve, would be proud—so when Obie scoffs at his ideas he pushes away the disappointment and clings to the idea that for the first time in his long years he’s finally doing something of value.

None of that stops the nightmares that plague his sleep; lungs soaked and heavy, gasping breaths tearing the night, chest aching as he curls in on himself, begging for mercy. His sheets soak with sweat and he finds that the mattress is too soft, too warm, so when he does sleep, it’s on the couch in his lab, wrapped in a too thin blanket and for a few hours at most.

So he sleeps less.

Works more.

Drinks too much.

Days pass before JARVIS locks him out of the lab, the 52 hour mark with no sleep coming and going, and he manages a few hours of rest, a shower, some pizza he doesn’t remember ordering, and then he’s back at it.

He watches the news, keeps it on in the background, hoping for news from Gulmira, but praying nothing happens to Peter. He knows which hotel the kid is staying in, even has the number, but he doesn’t call, because as much as he wants to hear his voice, he can’t bring himself to dial, to hear his voice so far away, to hope that maybe this time, he won’t fuck everything up like he did with Pepper.

It’s hard to admit to himself, that he likes Peter, but what he feels is so utterly different from the few relationships he’s had that it scares him a little, so he acknowledges the emotions and the crush and then pushes it aside, focuses on the thing he can do something about right now, here, in his lab, and goes about creating something new, something that he can use to stop the people who would use his weapons to harm innocents.

He’s not just Tony Stark, Merchant of Death anymore, he’s something, _someone_ new.

* * *

Peter stares at the destruction around him, dazed and weary. He’d hiked into the mountains with a guide and three guards all paid handsomely by the paper to keep him alive, and what he’s seeing….

_Christ_

The village has been turned to rubble and ash; the residue of humanity in the fluttering of fabric that was once a curtain, the whimper of a dog left behind, the melted plastic of a doll’s hand, waving beseechingly from the debris of what was once a lively and bustling village.

Bile coats the back of his throat and he presses his hand to his mouth, swallowing hard so he doesn’t vomit again, watches as bodies are pulled from the scree, some no more than pieces, the stench of it making him gag. His hands shake as he lifts his camera and takes more photos, feeling some part of him die as the shutter clicks, over and over again.

* * *

“Sir, Miss Potts is at the door.”

Tony rubs a hand over his face, grimacing when he feels grease smear onto his brow and cheek. He’s been avoiding her for days, kept her and Obie shut out of the tower and the lab as much as he can, but he knows he can’t do it forever.

“Yea, fine, let her in,” he sighs, grabbing a rag to wipe at his hands and face, spinning on his stool to face the door as Pepper strides in, brow already furrowed. He can see the strain around her eyes, the purse of her lips tight as her gaze flits around the lab, takes in the chaos, the raggedness of his voice when he manages to clear his throat and call out a greeting.

“Pep, what’s shakin?”

She stares at him for a moment and then shakes her head, “You need to come to the board meeting today Tony. They’re going to lock you out and you’re going to lose any power you have to make this thing right.”

_Make this thing right_

It’s funny, he’d thought that’s what he’s _been_ doing, but all anyone wants to tell him is how he’s been fucking up, how this new direction is going to destroy the company, and he _just_ , he’s just, _so_ fuckin tired.

Every time he closes his eyes he sees Yinsen, bleeding out and telling him not to waste his life and then he’s drowning, sucking water into his lungs instead of air, and distantly, a voice calls him a failure in the very familiar tones of his father.

His fingers knock against the bottle of scotch that’s been his near constant companion then pauses as Pepper’s look of dismay sinks in. He weighs it for a moment and then stands, puts some distance between him and the bottle, scrubbing at his hands with the rag as he grins at Pepper, his mask firmly in place.

“What should I do Pep? Go grovel? Promise to change my mind?” he drawls, throwing his hands wide, the rag in his left fluttering as he smirks at her. “I’m not sorry and I’m not going to change my mind, so what would you like me to say?”

Pepper flinches and sighs, spine straightening and he immediately regrets speaking to her like that. She’s kept his ass out of the fire for years, coddled and handled him after bad breakups and kept more than a few dirty little secrets out of the news.

“I-I’m sorry Pep,” he sighs, exhaustion sinking deep into his bones, “What do you need from me?” he asks, more sincerely this time.

She studies him for a moment and then sighs, shakes her head, “First, you can take a shower. Then trim that mess on your face and put on the Prada suit and we can go over these talking points on the way to SI, okay?”

They stare at each other for a minute before he tosses the rag aside. “JARVIS, make a note of that last iteration, run the next algorithm and hold the data until I get back,” he orders, waving a hand out till Pepper breezes past him, spine stiff.

He follows after her, already imagining every way in which this could go badly.

Because it seems that’s the only way things can go nowadays.

* * *

Peter ducks as a missile screams overhead, shuddering as it explodes, rubble raining down as the world burns around him. Panting, he follows his guide up out of the valley, turning back to watch as Jericho missiles rain down and turn the air into fire and dust.

He lifts his camera and snaps the last few photos on the roll, capturing the moment STARK tech destroys yet more lives.

Hot air buffets his body and gunfire breaks the air, bullets slamming into the dirt near his head and a figure looms large; the last thing he sees before sharp agonizing pain blooms in his skull and everything turns dark.

* * *

Tony peers around as the Gala goes on, full swing. Pepper is in the corner schmoozing board members and donors, radiant in a blue dress that’s entirely backless and at one time would have held his attention, but right now all he can thinks about is Peter Parker.

He scans the crowd, watching for a mop of honey brown hair and angular cheekbones, stomach sinking with each moment that he doesn’t see the younger man. He sips his whiskey and sucks at the ice, cold on his tongue after the burn of the alcohol, finger playing lightly around the rim of the glass, over and over again.

“Mr. Stark.”

He turns and his stomach flutters, falls through the floor and then flies into the sky because he’s here, Peter is here.

“Mr. Parker,” he replies quietly, smiling softly, a warm feeling lodging in his chest when he sees Peter is wearing the suit he had designed just for him. Maybe that’s why it takes a moment for it to sink in, the bruising all along the left side of his face, the cuts and scrapes on his cheek, chin and brow, but worst of all is the look in Peter’s eyes; loathing and fury.

When it does he takes a step forward and halts at the icy glare the younger man gives him, the slap of something onto the bar jolting him.

“You know, I almost bought it, this whole tortured rich guy act, this new leaf you’ve supposedly turned over. Hook, line and sinker,” he laughs bitterly, and Tony’s stomach sinks faster than one of his missiles, “you almost had me.”

“I, what do you mean?” he asks faintly, throat thick as Peter continues to glare at him, barely contained rage on his face and in every line of his body. “What happened to you Peter?

“Look,” the young man hisses, shoving something at him and he flinches, steps back, heart hammering and vision doubling for a moment before he looks down, sweat icy cold on his brow. His hand shakes as he reaches for the photos, acid burning in his stomach as he flips through them.

“When are these from?” he whispers, voice hoarse, because he already knows where they’re from, what Peter is going to tell him and his skin goes icy cold, head light as it sinks in.

“Three days ago,” Peter snaps.

“I didn’t know,” he says breathlessly, gaze flickering back up to find Peter glaring at him skeptically. He reaches out, flinching back when Peter hisses and yanks his hand away. “I swear, Peter I didn’t know,” he pleads, throat closing up when the younger man steps back again and shakes his head.

“Right, like I should believe anything you say.” Peter casts him one last disgusted look and shoves the photos back into Tony’s hands, “So you don’t forget just what it is you’ve done.”

Tony watches him walk away, stomach sinking with every step that takes him further and further away.

* * *

Tony stumbles into his bedroom, arm slung round the waist of a pretty brunette and her blonde companion.

When he wakes the next morning, his head throbs painfully and the light streaming in through the blinds feels like shards of glass slicing into his corneas. Struggling up, he glances at the man and woman in his bed and shifts, grimacing at the familiar ache and strain in his lower body.

He stumbles away and heads into the shower, stands under the water until his head feels less like a deflated balloon and he’s clear enough to make his way down to the lab.

Queen blares from his stereo and as he slides his goggles into place and picks up the blowtorch, he exhales slowly, shoving aside all the distractions to focus on this one thing, this thing that will change every other thing in his life and perhaps earn him some redemption.

* * *

In between not enough sleep and too much alcohol he takes people to bed, the pleasure short lived and despairingly empty, echoing inside him as he tries to fill that void that’s always been inside him, dug out when he was too little to understand what was happening and left to grow as he grew older and understood all too well.

He doesn’t know names or remember faces, and in the morning Pepper is there to escort them away, her lips pursed and turned down in disapproval.

It doesn’t matter though, nothing really does, because somehow his weapons are still in the hands of terrorists, and he’s got even more blood on his hands than before.

* * *

Music fades and the world fills back in, sensation and thought and he’s vaguely aware of an ache in his stomach and a throb in his skull that means he hasn’t eaten in...too long. If he can’t remember, it’s been too long.

“Tony.”

He looks up and brightens at the sight of Rhodey, shutting off the torch so he can stand, cursing when his head goes light and dizzy and he has to catch himself on the work table. Rhodey’s hand clamps around his elbow and guides him back into his seat as the other man leans on the bench, a frown on his lips as Tony’s vision clears.

“Rhodey?” he murmurs, peering up at his best friend, noting the lines around his mouth and eyes, the strain in his brow and the sickly pallor to his skin. “Rhodes...what’s goin on?” he whispers, fear clutching at his belly as Rhodey just stares.

The silence stretches on until Tony reaches out and takes Rhodey’s hand, “Rhodey, talk to me?” he whispers, heart thundering too fast.

Rhodey swallows hard and glances away, throat taut as he shakes his head and then whispers the words that will shatter Tony beyond repair.

“I have AIDS Tony.”


	8. Up Around the Bend

_“Tony sweetie, your father and I have something to tell you.”_

_His mother smiles sweetly at him, waving him over to sit between her and his father on the couch and he studies their faces, picking up on the excitement(his mother) and pride (his father). “What’s going on?” he asks, somewhat fearfully. The last time they had a surprise for him he was being sent to a new boarding school._

_“Oh sweetie, it’s nothing bad, I promise,” his mother assures him, hand gentle on the back of his neck as she leans in to press her lips to his hair. He inhales her perfume; Chanel, and relishes in the gentle touch, the warmth and security the simple gesture provides._

_“So what is it?” he asks when she pulls back and takes his hand, squeezing it gently._

_“Well, you’re the first to know,” she tells him, smile widening and eyes brightening. “You’re going to be a big brother.”_

_He stares at her for a moment before his gaze flickers down to her still flat stomach; wonder and confusion and excitement filling him. He reaches out hesitantly, glances up to find her watching and when she realizes his intent she smiles and takes his hand, presses it to her belly so he can feel the soft curve there._

_“It’s too soon to feel him moving, but he’s in there,” she tells him, grinning conspiratorially, “he’s about the size of a blueberry right now. In a few weeks you’ll be able to feel him flipping around in there.”_

_Tony grins and throws himself into her arms, her soft oof melting easily into laughter. “That’s so cool mom,” he whispers before a firm hand at his shoulder pulls him back and his father is frowning at him, shaking his head._

_“You can’t do that Tony, your mother is in a delicate stage, you have to be gentle.”_

_He nods solemnly and then looks back at his mother apologetically, “Sorry,” he whispers, “Did I...hurt it?” he asks fearfully. Tears burn in his eyes; he loves his mother, and if he hurt her..._

_Maria shakes her head and opens her arms, “Come here sweetie, it’s ok, we just have to be gentle,” she murmurs as he curls back into her arms._

_He hears Howard huff and feels it when he stands from the couch, “You shoudn’t coddle him Maria. He needs to know what can happen if he’s irresponsible. Tony, let her go,” he orders, yanking on Tony’s arm till it hurts and he’s pulled away from his mother and onto his feet._

_Howard looms over him, frowning, “It’s your responsibility to help your mother Tony. She’ll need to rest and sleep and I can’t have you bothering her. Do you understand? If you tire her out, the baby will die.”_

_Fear clutches his belly and he glances to his mother with wide eyes, then back to his father, nodding emphatically._

_“I promise, I’ll protect her,” he vows with all the solemnity a nine year old can muster._

_Howard studies him a moment before waving a hand, dismissing him._

_He pauses at the door and glances back to find his father already heading back to his office and his mother, still sitting on the couch, staring into the distance with a hollow look on her face. He sees the bruise on her cheekbone and another on her wrist, too thin and delicate and he shivers, promises himself that he’ll do better to protect her, to make sure she’s okay._

_It’s his job, his responsibility, and he won’t fail anymore._

* * *

“I’m sorry sir, but the latest iteration has proven unsuccessful.”

Tony sighs heavily and sets aside the soldering iron, hands cramping after such delicate work and runs a hand over his face and through his hair, “Right. Keep going,” he orders. “Make note of any useful data and apply it moving forward.”

“Yes sir. Might I suggest a break sir? It’s been 18 hours since your last meal.”

Tony shifts in his seat and rolls his shoulders, “Yea, sure, order a sandwich from the kitchen. Turkey and bacon on rye. No onion. Have them send a soda too, root beer please.”

JARVIS confirms the order and goes back to running trials on the drug Tony’s been trying to develop as a cure for AIDS, but he’s no biochemist, so most of this is guess work and it drives him a little crazier every time an iteration fails.

He stands and stretches, groans as his muscles protest. He’s tired but has no real drive to sleep, not when he could be working on this. Not now that it’s life and death for the most important person in his life. Now it’s up to him to keep Rhodey healthy while he searches for a way to cure him or treat him, anything to make sure he doesn’t become one of the thousands that have already died because of this disease.

With more data sets he could see how the drug he’s testing is working on different patients, but it’s not like he has access to that many people with AIDS. Pausing, he stands and breathes as an idea takes form. He lets it sink in and grow and then exhales unsteadily, excitement rising within him.

“JARVIS, contact Pepper and get her here. I’ll also need the name of a biochemist and molecular engineer. Check and see if Bruce Banner is working with any organizations, it’s been a few years since we’ve talked but he might have a recommendation. Is there anyone at SI qualified?”

He paces as he asks questions, mind whirling a mile a minute. “Get me Rhodey after Pepper and start a new project,” he orders, grin growing with each second that passes.

“Very good sir, Miss Potts has been notified and is on her way, estimated time of arrival, 2:33pm. What shall we call the project sir?”

Tony grins.

“Project Blue Sky.”

* * *

Peter huffs in disappointment, hanging up the phone after yet another fruitless call to Stark Industries. Pepper hasn’t been the font of information he’s been hoping for, despite their sort of friendship and her budding relationship with MJ. She’s been polite but distant, insisting that she doesn’t know anything about how the Stark weapons ended up in the hands of the Ten Rings, and surprisingly, he believes her.

To his even greater disappointment, Peggy hasn’t turned anything up either—her resources within Iraq are limited and to get that kind of information would require her longest term asset to break cover, something she’d told him she couldn’t do.

So he’s back to square one.

He hasn’t seen or heard from Stark(and he has to think of him as Stark because Tony is the man who had bandaged his hand and nearly kissed him in the moonlight and he can’t think of him like that because it hurts too much) in the weeks since he confronted him at the Gala, but he’s read the articles on Stark Industries and the new changes he’s been implementing. Clean energy, internet access for the masses, investment in medical technology and pharmaceuticals, and a new clinic for AIDS and HIV patients have all taken the city and the economy by storm.

He tries not to watch the interviews Stark does, stays silent at the press gaggles and avoids eye contact when the older man’s gaze flickers over the crowds, always searching for him, but he can’t avoid him forever, he knows that. At some point he’ll have to speak to him because Jameson is growing angrier each time he comes back without a quote for the paper.

Sighing, he glances at the clock and turns his attention back to his article on the Hudson River cleanup effort—if he can get it done and to the copy editor before five he’ll be able to head out early and avoid the traffic on his way downtown. Steve had finally gotten a job at a local art gallery, teaching an introductory class three times a week and tonight is their first show of the student’s art.

It’s a quarter to five when he finishes, giving him just enough time to stop at a flower stand and buy a few bundles of faded roses for the students. He hails a cab and sits back, watching the skyline change as they drive, heart lurching when the familiar shape of Stark Tower passes by, throwing a shadow onto the road below.

He think how much like the tower Tony is; larger than life, infamous, untouchable.

Swallowing through a thick throat, he turns away and focuses on the signs and faces slipping by.

It’s just another building in a city full to overflowing with too many people and not enough heart.

* * *

The clinic won’t be on its feet for another month so Tony’s reduced to searching through his father’s old files, searching for anything that might help. He’s heard the stories of the men his father had worked with during WWII, trying to create an enhanced super soldier, but as he had heard over and over again, it had never worked.

His desk is covered in papers, some redacted, all labeled Project Rebirth.

It’s late, or early, depending on how you look at it, and he’s a third of the way through a bottle of scotch, but he has a good feeling about this. The test results on the men who underwent the serum process are frightening; uncontrollable rage, sociopathy, insanity...in short, a complete failure.

They have a database of about a hundred applicants for the new drug trials and he has JARVIS run their bloodwork and psych panel against the data from Rebirth, searching for a good match, but everyone involved so far shows little compatibility for the process.

He tasks JARVIS with running the serum against Rhodey’s blood to see if it can stop the virus only to be served crushing defeat when it does nothing. He searches the SI medical records for any employee or patient that might be a good match for the serum and in the intervening time works with engineers on the construction of the clinic, hires a host of new doctors, psychiatrists and researchers, and spends far too much time thinking about Peter Parker.

He’s avoided reaching out, recalling all too easily the look on his face at the Gala, the way he had shied away from Tony’s touch and each time, it hits him like a punch to the gut.

After Rhodey’s revelation he’d spilled his own secrets to his best friend; how he had discovered his weapons in the hands of the Ten Rings, how he and Peter had agreed to work together to find out how they got them, how he felt about Peter.

He shows Rhodey Peter’s articles on Vietnam, tells him about his grit and determination and how his eyes look like honey in the moonlight and comes to a very startling realization; he _likes_ Peter. Genuinely and without reservation.

He’s the most honest and morally upstanding man Tony’s ever met, including Rhodey and for the first time he finds himself caring what someone else thinks about him. There’s been a handful(three—four if you count Howard, and he hasn’t since he was 10 and too experienced in all the ways a father could disappoint and hurt) of people he valued the opinion of, and somehow, in a short time, Peter had made his way onto that list.

“Sir, I have found someone with whom initial tests show the serum would be a success.”

Surprised, Tony looks up from where he’s working on the boot thrusters for the new suit, “Really? Pull it up, I want to see,” he orders, sitting up straight and wincing as his back protests. JARVIS shows him the medical file of one Steven Grant Rogers, birthplace Brooklyn, age 26 years. His brows rise at the list of medical issues, mouth pursing as he reads.

“Asthma, 100 pounds, anemia, arrhythmia, Jesus JARVIS this guy isn’t a candidate, he’d never survive!”

“According to the initial scan of his blood and a virtual test of the serum, he is the ideal candidate.”

Tony frowns at the hologram and sighs, maybe if he can’t cure AIDS or treat it with the serum he can at least improve this guy’s life. He flips through the data until he finds the address and phone number listed for the kid, noting the names also listed at that address—Peggy Carter and James Barnes.

The names ring in his memory all day as he works on the suit and composes a letter, inviting the kid to come and receive treatment, and it’s as he’s working on the capsule designed to administer the serum that they finally sink in.

_Peggy, Barnes, Steve._

These are Peter’s friends.

* * *

Bucky frowns at the letter he’s just been handed by a courier, brows furrowing at the label indicating it’s from Stark Industries. Sliding a finger under the seal he pulls a letter free and reads, brows rising with each moment until he calls out breathlessly for Peggy.

She’s at his side a moment later, taking the letter he offers her, watching as her eyes widen and her breath catches. Her hand shakes as she leans into him, hopeful tears in her eyes.

“We have to tell Steve,” she whispers.

He nods and swallows hard because this, this could change everything for them.

* * *

Peter hears about the offer from Stark two days later and isn’t sure if he’s shocked or amazed, too numb at the moment to really be sure what he’s feeling. Peggy and Bucky and Steve have already met with Stark and have heard all the risks and benefits now it’s up to Steve to decide.

Still, Peter can’t get it out of his head, this generosity, the things the trio had said about Stark; how he had looked exhausted, how beseechingly he had asked if he could help, how earnest he had been in his assurances that there would be no cost—that the only thing he wanted was to use Steve’s results in future research.

It’s late when Peter decides to go see Stark, too many questions left unanswered for his journalistic leanings. He takes a taxi to the tower and stares up at it for a long moment before heading inside, palms clammy as he smiles weakly at the security guards. He’s painfully out of place in this marble and gold lobby, jeans ripped at the knees and shirt stained by grease from where he’s been working on the motorcycle, but hopefully they won’t think he’s crazy when he asks to see Stark.

“Um, Peter Parker to see Tony Stark,” he says hopefully, uncertainly. The guard lifts a brow but dutifully places a call, speaking softly to whomever is on the line, brows rising in shock before he nods and hangs up.

“Mr. Stark is in his lab. Take the fourth elevator to the 83rd floor and wait for Jarvis to give you entry.”

Peter nods and steps through the gate, shuffling nervously as he waits for the elevator, glancing over his shoulder to where the men are speaking quietly and glancing over at him in interest. The doors slide open with a ding and he steps in, presses the button for the 83rd floor and inhales sharply when the doors close and the elevator slides up smoothly. He runs his hands through his hair when he sees his reflection, grease smudged and tired, hair mussed and untidy, grimacing as he imagines what Aunt May would have to say about his appearance.

The doors slide open again and he steps out, glancing around cautiously before heading for the large steel door, eyeing the keypad and some sort of scanner beside it that he thinks is likely for a thumbprint.

Glances around for some sign this Jarvis person is around and frowns when he sees nothing but steel doors lining the hallway and no sign of another human being except for the faint thrum of a heavy bassline thumping from behind this door.

“Mr. Parker, please place your thumb on the scanner.”

Whirling, he stares around the hallway wide eyed, heart racing. There’s no one there.

“My apologies Mr. Parker, I am JARVIS--the Artificial Intelligence that runs Stark Tower. Please place your thumb on the scanner.”

Peter looks up toward the ceiling and spots the speakers that the disembodied voice seems to be coming from and nods unsteadily, “Right of course. Artificial Intelligence. That makes sense,” he says weakly, reaching out to press his thumb to the scanner. This kind of technology shouldn’t exist he thinks, not yet anyway. Everything he’s studied has said that a functional AI is still at least a decade away, yet here one is, talking and opening doors and controlling an entire building and yea, okay, he’s a little freaked out.

The door opens in front of him and he steps through uncertainly, heading toward the sound of rock music and a blowtorch crackling, peering around the corner as he gets closer. What greets him is the sight of Tony Stark in a black tank top, arms sweaty and bare, flexing in the light as he works, grease and dirt smudged over his skin and _wow_...that sure is something.

Swallowing hard, he approaches slowly, watching as Tony works, steady handed and focused and it’s hotter than it has any right to be, seeing him like this. When he’s a foot away from the workbench Tony looks up and jolts, fumbling with the torch for a moment before shutting it off and tugging his goggles up and off.

They stare at each other for a long silent moment.

“Sir, Mr. Parker is here.”

Tony snorts and rolls his eyes, “Geez, you think J?”

The sarcasm breaks the uneasy air and Peter shifts, searching for the right words, but Tony gets there first.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you anytime soon,” he admits, reaching for a rag to wipe his hands off. “What can I do for you Mr. Parker?” he asks, and the disinterest in his voice hurts more than Peter expected.

His throat is thick for a moment and he ducks his head, struggling with the anger and betrayal he still feels over Gulmira and sets it against this amazing gift Steve is being offered.

“It’s what you’re offering to do for Steve,” he murmurs, “I...I can’t thank you enough,” he stammers, cheeks flushing when Tony just stares at him, expression bordering on apathetic. “I was, I was hoping you might tell me a little more about this treatment?” he asks, “Peggy and Bucky didn’t really get into detail what it was, said you had asked them to be discrete.”

Tony nods slowly, arms still crossed over his chest and Peter’s stomach flutters when he lifts a hand to rub at his goatee, bicep flexing distractingly. “Is this on the record?” he asks coldly, gaze flickering over Peter’s shoulder, as though he doesn’t even want to make eye contact and Peter’s stomach plunges through the floor.

“No, no, of course not,” he assures the older man, “I just, I wanted to know what the process would entail. Steve is one of my best friends; he and Peggy and Bucky are like family and I just want to make sure he’s going to be safe if he does this.”

Tony makes a soft noise and shakes his head, running a hand through his hair and Peter’s gaze tracks the movement, watching as his muscles flex and his skin ripples. Lust and want burn into his belly and he glances away, flushing. He shouldn’t...he’s supposed to be angry with Tony, but this offer to Steve has tilted his worldview.

If he’s the kind of man who would build a clinic to treat those sick from AIDS and HIV and offer this thing to Steve that will make him a new, stronger man, then maybe he _isn’t_ the man who would sell his weapons to terrorists. It was sort of unbelievable anyway, after what he’d been through, but seeing the destruction first hand had been hard to ignore and nearly impossible to process.

“JARVIS, bring up the trial test of Mr. Rogers’ blood and the serum, including all files on Project Rebirth and declassify for Mr. Parker.”

There’s a moment of silence and Peter glances around uncertainly, wondering what the AI is going to do and then suddenly there’s a glowing blue hologram in front of him showing blood tests, strings of chemical equations and pages upon pages of reports from Project Rebirth and he’s utterly breathless.

Tony steps forward, shoulder nudging Peter’s as he lifts a hand and flips through the pages, “Like this,” he murmurs, showing Peter how to flip, zoom and move things around. He steps back and waves a hand, “Take a look.”

Peter swallows hard and moves forward, studying the blood chemistry and the makeup of the serum, gaze flickering over the test results and the pages of information, eyes widening as he realizes just what this could do to Steve.

“It doesn’t look like it worked on any of the previous test subjects,” he murmurs, frowning deeply when he reads how many went insane, died during testing or never even passed qualifications.

“Yea, well, this is technology from forty years ago. With what we know now about psychology and human biology, JARVIS and I are 98.7% sure that the serum will work as designed.”

Peter lifts a brow and flips another page, “And if it doesn’t?” he asks softly.

“As I explained to your friends, if anything happens to Mr. Rogers I’ll pay all his medical expenses for the rest of his life, any funeral costs, and provide a lifetime allowance for Ms. Carter and Mr. Barnes. It’s nowhere near enough to make up for the loss of a loved one, but it’s what I can offer.”

Peter hums in agreement and continues reading in silence, letting all the information sink in and process. His head spins with formulas and equations, and once it quiets, he realizes that he has no idea how much time has passed with him just standing here. Turning, he’s surprised to find Tony back at his work table, head bent over what appears to be a technical drawing.

Taking a few steps closer, he peers down and frowns; this looks like weaponry...far more advanced than anything SI has produced so far and his stomach turns, blood going icy.

“This was all a ruse, wasn’t it?” he whispers in disbelief, “A way for you to look good to the media before unveiling whatever this new weapon is and making even more money on death.”

Tony looks up stunned, glances down at the sketch and blanches. “No, it’s, it’s not what you think,” he insists. He rises half out of his chair as Peter steps away, waving him off, anger surging through his veins once more.

“Forget it Stark. I should have known better,” he snaps.

“JARVIS, bring up Project TI22,” he orders, stumbling over the stool to hurry in front of Peter, hands raised placatingly. “Listen, Peter, just, please look,” he pleads, holding a hand out as his dark eyes gleam with uncertainty.

Peter stares up at him for a long moment before turning back, brow furrowing as he takes in what’s before him. It’s a suit of some kind, enormous and weighted down with bulky weapons and in the corner of the holographic he sees the word MARK I.

“This is how I escaped in Iraq. I took the weapons they gave me to build the Jericho and built this instead with Yinsen. It was supposed to get us both free but he sacrificed himself to make sure I had enough time to finish the suit and I wouldn’t have made it if he hadn’t.”

Peter steps into the hologram, toying with the specs, studying each piece individually and together with the whole of the suit before he looks back and shakes his head, incredulous. “You did this in a _cave_ ,” he murmurs, astounded.

Tony grins weakly, “Genius,” he replies, pointing to himself, and Peter laughs, sharp and unexpected, because, yea, only a genius _could_ build something this incredible in a cave. Tony takes a hesitant step forward and lifts a hand, swipes the MARK I away and with another swipe brings up more drawings and schematics for something labeled MARK II. “This is what I’m building now. I’m going to use it to hunt down the Ten Rings and destroy any of my weapons that they still have. I won’t let my weapons fall into the wrong hands again,” he vows.

Peter looks between the schematics and Tony’s hopeful face, takes a slow, hesitant step toward him as a smile works its way across his face and joy blooms in his face. He’s half a foot from Tony as he stares up at him, studying the lines around his eyes and the exhaustion on his face and it occurs to him suddenly that he’s close enough that if he just leaned up a bit, he could kiss Tony.

“I promise, this is the only weapon I’ll ever design again. It’s my responsibility to fix what my company did, to try and make things right.” Tony gazes down at him intently, hand hovering by his side for a moment before he reaches out and wraps his fingers around Peter’s wrist and the heat of them sears into his skin, leaves his pulse rocketing and his cheeks pink.

“I swear Peter, you can trust me.”

Peter nods slowly and twists his wrist free, turns his hand so it can take Tony’s and squeeze.

“Okay.”


	9. Hooked on a Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter and Tony have feelings, Steve is reborn, and Peter begins an investigation with the help of Rhodey.

“What do _you_ think Pete?”

Peter looks up to find Steve and Peggy staring at him while Bucky sets the roast on the table, the juicy scent making his stomach rumble. “I, sorry, what do I think about what?” he asks, stumbling over the question.

Peggy grins, “Daydreaming about someone special?” she teases and Peter flushes pink, ducks his head because, well, yea he was. She laughs softly and lays her hand on his arm, “Have you seen him recently?” she asks gently, perfectly aware he’s embarrassed and kind enough not to tease him further.

“No, I uh, it’s just that I’ve been busy and I don’t want to intrude,” he mutters.

She gives him a knowing look but doesn’t press the issue. “Right, well, what do you think about Steve taking this serum?” she queries. “The potential for negative side effects is quite unnerving, but the promised success rate is reassuring.”

Peter nods, “I’ve studied the science and I think it’ll work. Ton—Mr. Stark said he wants to try and alter the formula into something that could cure AIDS, but he’s not had any luck yet. I think if Steve wants to, he should.” He turns to look at Steve and smiles, “How are you feeling about all this?” he asks.

Steve shifts in his chair and coughs, brow furrowing as it wracks his thin frame, spots of red blooming high on his cheeks as it goes on, dry and rattling. Bucky hurries over with an inhaler Stark had given them and urges Steve to inhale, watching him fearfully as he holds it in his lungs and then exhales. Another puff and a few minutes later, Steve’s breathing is slower and steadier, clearing with each slow breath he takes.

Bucky runs his fingers through Steve’s golden locks, closing his eyes as he winds his fingers around the nape of Steve’s neck and presses his lips to his temple. Steve curls into him, fingers twisting in Bucky’s shirt as he inhales in slow and regular beats. The tension in the room makes the hair on the back of Peter’s neck stand up and he looks away, giving them a moment of privacy.

Peggy’s hand closes over his, drawing his gaze up to her, smiling back when she squeezes it and gives him a reassuring look. She looks tired, he thinks, more than she has in awhile and he wants to ask if she’s okay, but he knows it’s likely from the stress of Steve’s poor health and their tenuous financial situation.

After being arrested Bucky was let go from his job and hadn’t been able to find anything for weeks now that he had a criminal record. It wasn’t fair or right, and as much as Peter wished he could help, there wasn’t much he could do other than keep his ears open for anything that might be a good fit for the former soldier.

There’s a flurry of movement as Bucky brings the rest of the food to the table and they all take a moment of silence—not really prayer, more thankfulness—and then dig in. A few moments of silence pass and then Steve clears his throat, drawing every gaze to where he sits, pink cheeked and exhausted, jaw firm with determination.

“I’m going to do it.”

They all stare at him, but no one interrupts because though they might have an opinion, it’s Steve’s body, and they can’t make this decision for him.

“I’m not going to get any stronger by myself, and the longer I’m around the fumes in the studio the worse my asthma gets. I want to be able to teach my kids and to carry groceries up the stairs and dance with Peggy without my heart racing for all the wrong reasons.” One of his hands fists around his knife and glares down at his small hand, “I want to be healthy. The man you both deserve.”

“Oh love, you _are_ ,” Peggy croons, tears bright in her eyes as she reaches for him, slipping out of her chair to kneel beside him, taking one of his hands in hers as she peers up at him softly, lovingly, “Steve, you _are_ the man Bucky and I deserve, the man we want. Love, you’re braver than men twice your size, smarter and kinder too, and it doesn’t matter to me what you look like or how healthy you are because you are already the perfect man for us, for me.”

Bucky nods and reaches out to cup the back of Steve’s head, his metallic hand large enough to span the width of it. His eyes are bright too and Peter wonders if he should leave the table, give them some privacy.

“Babydoll, you’re my heart,” Bucky murmurs, voice thick and rough. “Whatever you want, I’ll be right there at your side, Peggy too. We’re with you till the end of the line.”

Steve ducks his head, tears streaming down his face, shoulders hitching as he cries, leaning into Peggy as she leans up and wraps her arms around him. Bucky slides over and presses his face into Steve’s neck, breathing unsteadily, hand still at the back of his head, thumb stroking gently behind Steve’s ear.

Peter averts his gaze, cheeks burning and heart aching for the depth of love shared between his three friends. He’s searched for years for something similar and only once found anything even a fraction of a shade similar and it makes his chest hurt, the idea that he might _never_ find it. He wants someone as compassionate as Bucky, as smart as Peggy, as sweet as Steve, and suddenly, Tony’s face flashes in his mind.

Flushing, he scrubs a hand over his face, shaking his head at the silly thought. One almost kiss didn’t mean he had anything with Stark except chemistry, and it seemed that the man had chemistry with just about anyone. Just because he’s fantasized about the older man, had thought maybe...it’s dumb, but he’d thought there was something there when he was at the lab a week ago.

Trust.

Perhaps not a lot, but enough that they could build and grow into…

What?

Love?

He scoffs at himself and shoves a hand through his hair, shaking his head faintly. He’s such a lovesick idiot.

The sound of chairs scraping and throats clearing brought him out of his daze, smiling when Peggy shoots him a grin and a wink. They resume eating, moving on to new topics of conversation, but still, at the back of his mind is the image of Tony smiling at him hopefully, eyes bright and warm.

God, he’s so screwed.

* * *

_“I have AIDS Tony.”_

_Tony stares at him, wide eyed and befuddled because, that, that can’t be right. Rhodey can’t have AIDS because he’s healthy, he’s fine, he’s...he was shaky and pale and sick when he found Tony in the desert and oh god, oh_ **_god_ ** _…_

_“Wh—how?” he whispers, hand clenching around where he’s still holding Rhodey’s hand._

_The other man ducks his chin and shakes his head, “You remember Carol?” he asks softly, and yea, that’s the pilot Rhodey had told him about; smart and funny and fast as hell in an F-16. He nods and Rhodey continues, “She uh, well, we had a rough patch and weren’t seeing each other for a few weeks and she slept with someone else. Didn’t know he was positive. Didn’t know till she started getting sick. We were already back together by then, and well,” Rhodey shrugs and his figure blurs in Tony’s vision._

_He wipes hastily at his eyes and sniffles, “What do you need from me?” he asks hoarsely, “Christ, Rhodes, what can I do?” he whispers, heart cracking apart in his chest._

_Rhodey smiles sadly, “You can stop throwing your life away. Stop sleeping with these strangers and putting yourself in danger because I need you to use that brain of yours and find something to keep me from dying. I need you Tony,” he says brokenly, voice barely above a whisper as he chokes up, eyes welling._

_Tony can’t breathe, the sobs he’s choking back feel like they’ll shatter his ribs apart and he can’t, he can’t….he sobs and grabs for Rhodey, tugging him close so he can press his forehead to Rhodey’s, breath unsteady as he tries not to break down. “I’m here Rhodey, I’m here,” he promises, tears salty on his lips as Rhodey make a broken noise and clutches at his shoulders._

_“Help me Tony, you gotta help me,” Rhodey cries, breathless and gasping and Tony breaks, sobbing as he holds onto his best friend, his family, for dear life._

_“Anything, anything, I promise, Rhodey, I’ll protect you.”_

_It never occurs to him that he might not be able to keep that promise._

* * *

Tony looks up at the swish of his lab door opening, expression brightening when he sees it’s Peter. “Hey! Wasn’t expecting you,” he says, “glad you’re here though, I could use a second set of eyes on this formula, something just isn’t right and JARVIS isn’t being _any_ help.”

Peter grins at him and crosses the room, “Hey, well, I got your note and thought I’d take you up on your offer.” Tony had sent him a note a few days ago offering entry to the lab whenever he wanted because, _I’ve never met a journalist with an eye for biochemistry and engineering. Maybe you can teach me a few things._

Tony bites back a huge grin, tempering it into something more sedate, trying to hide how excited he is that Peter’s actually here. “Great, well, take a look,” he says, waving a hand to where the chemical structure of the serum is floating in the air, his notes meticulous and neat.

Peter steps into the hologram and studies the information, brow furrowing as he reads, hands lifting to play with the structure of the serum, making his own notes alongside Tony’s, and something in his chest bubbles up, warm and thrilling, seeing him _here_ , in the most personal space that Tony owns.

Pepper and Obie have been here countless times, Rhodey too, but never a stranger. Never one of the countless people he’s slept with, _never_ a reporter, and that, it suddenly hits him, is incredibly important. Sharing this with Peter isn’t just about science and trying to find a way to stop this horrifying disease, it’s about trust.

The realization takes his breath away for a moment and he sways, catches himself on his work station with a hand and then leans back against it, watching this beautiful young man peer up in wonder at something he’s created and it just, fuck, it’s so right it makes his heart beat a little unsteadily.

When Peter looks over at him and grins, eyes bright, and says, “This is incredible Tony,” he can only nod, breathless, because, yea, it really is. He’s hooked on that look, on the way Peter makes him feel when they’re together, and it almost reminds him of the times he’s been high—deliriously happy, content and unable to stop grinning.

And shit, he’s got it _bad_.

* * *

Peter gets lost in the science, making notes and muttering softly to himself, only glancing up occasionally to ask JARVIS a question while Tony works on the other side of the room on what looks to be an arm piece of his suit.

“Sir, there is a call for you from Mr. Stane.”

Peter glances up and over at Tony who shoots him a smile and waves a hand, “Thanks J. Send to the phone in secure room one.” He nods to Peter, “Be right back,” and a moment later, he’s stepping through what had looked like just an ordinary space of wall.

“JARVIS?”

“Yes Mr. Parker?”

“Can you answer something for me?”

“I can attempt to do so, so long as it is within the bounds afforded to you by your security clearance. What would you like to know?” the AI asks.

Peter hesitates a moment and then asks, “Would you be able to access all of Mr. Stane’s calls?”

There’s a moment of silence and then, “Yes Mr. Parker, those that are routed through the Tower are accessible to me. Those placed from Stark Industries headquarters are inaccessible to me without my interface being uploaded to their server system.”

“Why do you want to know about Obadiah’s calls?”

The new voice startles Peter; whirling, he finds a black man staring at him with hard eyes, stiff posture and an air to him that screams military.

“I-uh,” Peter stammers, trying to formulate a response, swallowing hard before he gathers his thoughts and explains. “I’m trying to find out how the Ten Rings got their hands on Stark weaponry. Logically, they either got them from the military by stealing them from a base or buying them from someone in the military, or someone within SI sold the weapons to them. But someone within SI would have to know how to make those weapons disappear and forge sales documents to cover up that they weren’t sold to legitimate buyers and _that_ person could only be high up.”

When he finishes his explanation, he stares up at the older man, heart beating rapidly as anticipation makes him sweat. The man stares at him for a long moment, intelligence plain in his gaze as he ponders what Peter’s told him.

“Yea, that’s what I thought too.”

The response takes Peter by surprise and it must be clear on his face because the older man grins and shakes his head, sticking his hand out for Peter to shake. “Colonel Rhodes,” he introduces, “James if you like. Most of my friends just call me Rhodey,” he tells Peter.

“Peter Parker,” Peter replies, “It’s nice to meet you sir.”

“You as well kid, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Rhodey says with a wry grin, laughing softly when Peter flushes and looks away. Peter doesn’t know how to respond to that, but it doesn’t matter because then Rhodey is looking up at the ceiling and asking, “Hey J, can you start tracking all calls made by Obadiah in and out of the tower please?”

Peter grins and looks up too, “Uh, JARVIS, could you also compile all data on any additional weapons sales made during the three months Tony was held captive, and since his return. Look for discrepancies in orders sent and received, or for any shipments marked lost. I doubt it’ll be that easy, but, we have to start somewhere.”

“Yes sirs. Shall I share this data with Mr. Stark?”

Rodey and Peter share a look before the older man shakes his head, “No J, let’s keep this to ourselves, hmm?”

“Very good sir.”

Peter grins at Rhodey, “Thank you, for this. It’s been on my mind for awhile but I, I didn’t want to tell Tony, I know Obadiah is like family to him.”

Rhodey nods slowly, “For better or worse, yea.”

That, _that_ unsettles Peter. He swallows hard and nods, glancing back up when something else occurs to him. “Rhodey, could you use your military contacts to track sales? I mean, I don’t want to put you in danger, but, you’d be able to find something like that out, right?”

Rhodey thinks about it for a minute and then nods slowly, “Yea, I’ll see what I can do kid.”

“Don’t call him kid, he hates it.”

Peter and Rhodey turn, Peter’s heart racing when he sees Tony smirking at them from across the room. He really hopes Tony hasn’t heard what they were talking about, and based on the pleased look he’s shooting them both, they’ve managed to keep this quiet, for now.

“Man, he _is_ a kid,” Rhodey teases, nudging Peter’s arm with his elbow, “smart one though.”

Tony nods and strides over, embracing his friend firmly, surprising Peter with the emotion behind it. “Hey buddy, doin okay?” he asks softly, pulling back to study Rhodey. Peter’s gaze flicks between them, frowning at the intensity behind the question. There’s something he’s missing, something he doesn’t know, and it’s serious, whatever it is.

“Doing great Tones. Just here for a little pick me up, that coffee you got from Columbia?”

Tony nods and pats his arm, “Sure thing honey bear, secure room twelve,” he tells the older man, grinning when Rhodey punches his arm gently and murmurs a quiet _thank you_. Peter watches Rhodey disappear through the main entrance to the lab and then looks to Tony, noting the way his gaze lingers on the door for another long moment.

Tony turns back and Peter can see his brow is furrowed, a thoughtful look in his eyes. When the older man looks up the strain melts away, replaced with an easy grin. “Hey, make any progress?” he asks, striding over to study what Peter had done on the serum’s formula.

“A little,” Peter murmurs.

Tony’s arm brushes against Peter’s, sending a shiver over his spine, and when he looks up, Tony is studying him intently, gaze dark and hot. He feels calloused fingers brush against the back of his hand and inhales sharply, a warm, shivery feeling making him breathless.

“You’ve got the most beautiful mind I’ve ever seen,” Tony breathes, the heat from his body making Peter shiver, the intensity of his words making his head light. When Tony lifts a hand and brushes his knuckles across Peter’s cheeks he can’t help the shudder that runs over his skin, nor the breathless noise he makes, skin heating with desire and embarrassment.

He wonders desperately if Tony is going to kiss him, hopes maybe it’s true, eyes fluttering as the older man leans in toward him…

“Sir, you have a call from Miss Potts, she says it’s most urgent.”

Peter hears Tony curse and when he opens his eyes, he finds the older man staring down at him yearningly, hesitating before he pulls away regretfully. “Secure line, room one,” he mutters, pausing before he turns away, shoots Peter a pained smile, “I’m sorry, I gotta—”

Peter nods, “Yea, no, I understand,” he replies, still a little breathless. He smiles weakly when Tony grins and nods, jogs over to the panel for the secure room and then disappears.

Heart thundering, he wipes a hand over his face and laughs only a little hysterically, because holy shit, what was _that_?

He keeps thinking on it as he walks home, as he undresses for bed, as he takes his aching cock into hand and strokes it, dark eyes and a soft voice calling him beautiful in his mind as he spills onto his belly with a moan of Tony’s name.

Breathless and weak, he stares up at the ceiling.

Goddamn, he’s got it _bad._


	10. Walk Me Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve is reborn, Tony asks for help, and Peter plays operation.

After a few weeks of visits to Stark Tower Peter is approached while out to lunch with MJ and Ned by a courier. When he opens the insulated package he frowns at the keycard that falls out and then reads the note that comes with it.

_Come by whenever you want—I love having that beautiful brain around._

_TS_

MJ crows when she steals the letter and reads it, grinning as Peter blushes and both she and Ned press him for details. When he finally relents and tells them of how he and Tony have almost kissed twice, Ned offers him a high five and MJ just grins.

Shortly after that Stark Industries announces a new line of work into medical research, low cost pharmaceuticals, infrastructure and technology, and Peter somehow (Tony) scores an interview with the two men in charge.

Obadiah is firmly spoken and steady, smiles a lot in a way that Peter thinks is supposed to be winning but really just sets his teeth on edge. Tony speaks up now and again and he can feel the older man’s gaze on his neck when he’s looking at Obadiah and he fights a blush but ultimately loses.

When he meets Tony’s gaze there’s something warm and flirtatious in his gaze, lips curled into a grin that’s far too familiar for Peter’s comfort in this situation. He glances at Obadiah and finds the older man studying them, gaze shrewd and sharp.

After the interview is over he shakes both men’s hands and thinks about lingering to get Tony alone so he can tell him—what? Not to look at Peter like he wants to fuck him? Because honestly, Peter doesn’t really mind the idea of _that_ , it’s just, he doesn’t trust Obadiah, and he can’t explain that to Tony yet.

So he goes home, frustrated and aroused and jerks off, picturing the look in Tony’s eyes, recalling the rough sensation of his hands when they work together in his lab, the sounds of effort the older man makes when he’s hammering and shaping his suit and it takes no time at all before Peter spills over his hand, shaking and moaning Tony’s name.

His head slumps back against the wall where he’d barely made it inside the apartment before he was overcome with need and exhales slowly, eyes fluttering shut as the endorphins in his body linger warmly.

He thinks that next time he goes to see Tony he’s going to have to do something about this, and it scares him a little, excites him too.

The last time he felt this way about someone was…

He swallows hard and pushes away from the wall, determinedly burying those memories.

* * *

_It’s silent, as silent as a jungle can be anyway; there’s no bombs exploding or missiles whistling through the air and the screams from the hospital have long since quieted._

_It’s eerie._

_Peter grabs his camera and wanders through base, snapping photos and chatting as he goes, waving to men he knows and making polite conversation with those he doesn’t until he’s to the far corner of the base where the tertiary watch tower is, looming up in the fading gloom of sunset._

_He whistles and a head pops over the edge, face splitting into a grin and then he’s being waved up. Clambering up the rickety ladder had made him nervous the first dozen times he’d done it, but now, a year and half into his time in Vietnam, it’s old habit._

_When he reaches the top he’s greeted by Dum Dum and Jacques and after a brief greeting, Dum Dum complains about needing a piss and disappears down the ladder. It’s quiet when Peter leans on the railing of the tower, gazing out at the dark dense mass of jungle before them._

_He feels it more than sees it when Jacques sidles closer, hand shifting till their fingers brush and just that slightest touch is enough to make his heart race and his blood warm._

_“I missed you,” Jacques whispers, still staring straight ahead._

_Peter smiles softly and shifts his hand till he can slot his fingers between the older man’s, palm warm on the back of his hand. “I missed you too,” he admits._

_Jacques and Peggy and Dum Dum had all been out on recon for the past week and while Peter had wanted to go, he’d been hesitant to leave Bucky behind while he recovered from the in-field amputation he’d undergone at Peggy’s hands. The man is gone now, shipped home with a medical discharge and a chest full of medals, and the Commandos feel the loss acutely._

_Jacques toys with his fingers and hums softly before turning toward Peter, eyes dark and lips curled softly into a smile. “viens ici mon amour,” he whispers, tugging Peter till he’s pressed against the warmth of his chest._

_Peter’s hands slide up his lover’s chest and twine into his hair, pulling him down for a warm, hungry kiss. Jacques moans softly when Peter tugs at his hair and the kiss quickly devolves into something heavier, more tongue and teeth and needy gasps._

_Jacques presses him against the railing, hips grinding together and then it’s a rush to pull clothing aside, hands on skin and cocks sliding together wetly in Jacques’ grasp. They muffle their moans with kisses as they rut together, breathless and high on anticipation, the danger of being caught all too real._

_After, Jacques wipes them clean with his handkerchief and rearranges their clothes, pulls him close despite the sweat on their skin and the muggy air. He whispers sweet promises in French and kisses Peter slowly, promising his love, promising they’ll be together forever._

_Six months later Jacques is dead and Peter is shipping back to the US, numb inside and broken down to his core._

* * *

Tony stares at the changes he’s made to the reactor, pleased with the way it’s turned out but stuck on the fact that his hands are far too big to remove the old one and replace it with its newer counterpart. He debates for a moment over asking Pepper for help but abandons the idea—she’s busy running his company and there’s someone he’d much rather see right now. He has JARVIS call Peter, biting his lip when the line rings a few times before it’s answered by a breathless “Hello?”

“Hey, uh, it’s me,” he says lamely, grimacing when there’s a moment of silence on the line, only to perk up when Peter responds with an excited “Hey Tony! It’s good to hear from you, what’s up?”

“I, uh, I could use your help on a project, you available?” he asks nervously. “If not I can get Pep, she’s just been busy basically running SI.”

“No, no problem, I can be there in half an hour, is that ok?”

“That’s perfect. See you soon.”

“See ya!”

JARVIS ends the call and he stares ahead blankly before turning his attention to the serum formula he’s been tinkering with. Dr. Banner had joined his team of researchers along with the brilliant Dr. Cho, but so far they’ve not had luck in creating a functional treatment or a cure for the AIDS virus.

Rhodey has donated more blood to the cause than Tony is comfortable with, but he’s been reassured time and again by his best friend that Tony can have whatever he needs if it means finding a way to stop this disease. They’ve so far been able to keep it secret from the military, but the next time his physical comes around (three months from now) things are going to get very tricky.

Exactly twenty eight minutes later JARVIS announces that Peter is exiting the elevator and he can’t help the fine tremble in his hands as he closes down the display showing the serum work he’s been doing. He’s forty three years old and more nervous to see Peter than he’s ever been with any of his previous...lovers? Relationships?

_Christ_

He’s so bad at this.

The lab doors slide open and Peter strides in, grinning as he crosses the room. He takes in the sight of him, drinks in the jeans and grey T-shirt he’s wearing with a lambswool and leather jacket and as he gets closer Tony can see the dog tags he’s noticed before pressing into the underside of the soft fabric of Peter’s shirt.

“Hey!” Peter greets him, glancing around the lab curiously, “Uh, what did you need my help with?”

God, he can’t do this. No one would want to see what lies beneath his perfectly tailored shirts— _he_ doesn’t even like to look at it. Ducking his chin he shakes his head, “Yea, you know, I was wrong, it’s uh, it’s nothing, you don’t need to—”

He stumbles over his words abruptly when Peter steps closer and wraps his fingers around Tony’s wrist, drawing his gaze up. When he sees Peter is smiling softly at him, gaze reassuring and warm, his heart stutters in his chest.

“It’s not nothing Tony, I’ll help you with whatever you want,” he offers, eyes wide and warm and sincere.

Tony’s heart lurches in his chest and he wants to kiss Peter _so bad_ , but swallows the urge and nods unevenly. Right. He can do this. He can trust Peter.

“Yea, it’s just, well, I’ll show you,” he mutters, turning and grabbing Peter’s hand without thinking, dragging him along to secure room two where he’s set up his diagnostic chair and the replacement reactor is waiting on the work table.

Peter frowns at it, fingers hesitating before he runs them over the cold surface and Tony can see the question forming, but waits for it before he says anything else.

“What is this?”

“It’s what’s been keeping me alive. I told you I had open heart surgery in the cave? Well, the man who saved me, Yinsen, created an electromagnet to keep the shrapnel that’s still inside me away from my heart. I eventually improved it, but it sustained some damage during my escape and hasn’t been functioning as well since I got back.”

Peter turns to stare at him curiously, gaze flickering to the middle of his chest before coming back to meet his eyes. “So what do you need from me?” he asks softly, “I don’t, I don’t want to hurt you,” he admits softly and something thrums between them as Tony steps closer, shaking his head.

“You won’t, I promise. I, it’s just that, the reactor is outdated and I’ve created a new one but my hands are too big and I need help replacing it,” he explains in a rush. He waves a hand toward his chest, “It’s uh, it’s gotta come out.”

Peter stares up at him wide eyed, “Uh, is that _safe_?” he asks hesitantly, brows drawn together in concern and Tony _really_ wants to kiss him now.

“It’s fine,” he assures Peter.

He settles back into the chair and wiggles his shoulders, watching as Peter approaches slowly, gaze darting from Tony to the new reactor to the old one glowing beneath his shirt, until finally he swallows nervously and nods, “What do I do?”

Tony waves him over and shows him the new reactor, “This is the new one. I’ll take the old one out and you’ll have to reach in to pull out the wire that’s causing a short, and then the new one goes in. Easy as pie,” he says, only lying a little.

Peter nods hesitantly and Tony goes to take his shirt off but is stopped by Peter’s hand over his. When he looks up at the kid he finds that there’s concern and unease in his young face and he watches Peter bite his lip for a moment before he works up what he wants to say.

“Are you sure? About me doing this? I mean. I’m not a medical professional and I just don’t understand why you want _me_ ,” Peter tells Tony quietly, brows furrowed and whiskey eyes bright.

“I asked you because I trust you Peter. Rhodey isn’t here and Pepper,” he hesitates and then tells the truth, “what she and I had is over and it would just upset her to see this, to see this part of me...to see the damage.”

Peter’s brows lift, the corner of his lips twitching up in surprise, “You trust me?” he asks and then, even more incredulously, “ _Why_?”

“Because you brought me the truth about my company. Because you fought to make me hear those stories and see the people I’d hurt. You made me realize how checked out I was, how indifferent I had become and it made me want to be better, _you_ made me want to be better. You gave me a second chance at your friendship and then listened about Yinsen and Iraq and trusted me with your story and you never once made me feel like everyone else does when they’re around Tony Stark.”

He pauses and huffs out a breath, “Because kid, when I’m with you, I’m just Tony, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.” He’s just nervously blurt out a spew of emotions and that’s never really been the most attractive look, but the way Peter is staring at him makes his breath catch.

Peter stares down at him, stunned and _awed?_ and he suddenly wonders if his word vomit has scared the kid off him permanently. Then Peter grins and shakes his head, “Don’t call me kid,” he teases, squeezing Tony’s hand where he’s still holding onto it. Tony laughs, nods and wipes surreptitiously at his eyes where he’s _definitely_ not leaking tears it’s just _allergies_ and squeezes his hand back.

“I’m glad you trust me,” Peter says when they both sober, smiles softly down at Tony and _shit_ does he want to kiss him. Instead he nods and wiggles his hand free so he can pull off his shirt.

Peter stares down at his chest, brows drawing together and reaches a hand out, pausing to look up at Tony questioningly, “I...may I?” he asks softly and Tony bites back a shiver as Peter’s gaze flickers over his chest curiously.

He hasn’t been this exposed since he first got back and Pepper and Rhodey had seen the damage. He’d kept his shirt on when he was drunkenly fucking around because, well it’s easier to hide and if Tony Stark is a little eccentric in bed, it’s good for the mythos. It’s also good for keeping his self loathing buttoned up where it’s not quite so visible. His love/hate relationship with the reactor is likely fodder for a therapist, but who would he ever be able to trust with this?

He feels panic rise up, bitter and hot like bile behind his teeth and he sucks air into his lungs unevenly, eyes falling shut as he struggles to remain present. He swears he can feel the reactor stretching his ribs, pushing them apart until they’re ready to shatter— _they won’t, it won’t, it’s secure, you’re safe_ —and then there’s a hand on his shoulder and he opens his eyes in a flash to find Peter gazing at him worriedly.

“Hey, breathe with me Tony, slow and even,” the younger man murmurs, inhaling and exhaling loudly. Tony struggles and gasps, eyes watering and then Peter grabs his hand and lifts it to Peter’s chest so Tony can feel his heart beating, his lungs moving and that, that’s, _better_.

“It’s okay Tony, I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re safe. Just breathe, with me,” Peter chants softly, edging closer so the rough material of his jeans rubs against Tony’s hip and he nods, forces his eyes open so he can look up at Peter.

The younger man smiles softly and they breathe together until his heart rate slows and it doesn’t make his lungs scream when he exhales. He realizes his fingers are curled in Peter’s shirt and slowly unwinds them, averting his gaze for a moment to break the intensity between them.

“Do you still want to do this?” Peter asks softly and when Tony nods, he shifts beside him, “Okay then, walk me through this,” he says confidently.

Tony manages a ghostly smile and begins explaining what is going to happen when the reactor is removed. They have ninety seconds before he goes into cardiac arrest, and it should only take half that to pull and replace the reactor. His hands still shake as he motions toward his chest and his heartbeat is a touch too fast, but it’s better, and if he enjoys Peter’s hand on his shoulder, well, that’s his secret to keep.

Peter nods and shucks off his jacket, a determined set to his jaw as he reaches for the reactor in Tony’s chest slowly, allowing him time to push him away if he has to. He doesn’t though, he just breathes slowly and watches as Peter’s face is washed in blue light and then there’s a pop as the old reactor is lifted free.

He tries not to laugh when Peter sticks his hand into the core and digs for the loose wire, the inorganic discharge the reactor produces squelching unpleasantly, based on his expression.

“Good, now don’t let it touch the sides—like operation?—”

“Oper—what? Why? What happens?!”

“It’ll cause a short and I’ll—oh shit!”

Peter gasps and pulls out the wire entirely and pain radiates through his chest, heat and electricity and oh _fuck_ this hurts.

“Toss it,” he gasps, eyes watering as Peter whimpers and curses, apologizing with wide, unhappy eyes. Peter grabs the new reactor and guides it in and when it connects Tony shouts, gritting his teeth as yet more pain wracks his body. He fights off the panic that swells within him, the gritty memory of open heart surgery in a cave making him gasp, jaw clenched so tight he’s sure he’s going to crack a molar.

He inhales unsteadily, the scent of Peter’s cologne and the grease and metal of the shop filling his nose. It’s familiar and he breathes deeper, laying there a moment with his eyes closed, the sensation of Peter’s hands on his chest surprisingly grounding. When he opens his eyes he finds Peter watching him with concern, lips bitten pink in his anxiety, cheeks flushed from fear most likely and it hits him how much he likes the younger man, how eagerly he wants Peter to stay and get to know him, for Peter to want him like Tony wants Peter.

“Don’t _ever_ ask me to do that again,” Peter finally whispers, voice hoarse and Tony barks out a laugh, eyes falling shut as he just enjoys the moment. When he opens them again he finds Peter watching him with a smile and he can’t help it; he reaches up and tangles his fingers in the fabric of his shirt and tugs, Peter’s eyes widening as he’s pulled toward Tony.

“Sir, Mr. Stane is here, incoming.”

Peter pulls back abruptly from what is their third _almost_ kiss and Tony silently curses Obie and his timing. Peter turns away to wipe his hands off and Tony shrugs his shirt back on and by the time Obie walks into the main lab, they’re on opposite sides of the room.

Peter picks up the old reactor, “What do you want to do with this?” he asks curiously and Tony just waves a hand, “Throw it out, ask JARVIS where it should go,” he replies, stepping out into the lab to find Obie and usher him and his curious gaze out of the room.

Obie murmurs about the board still not being pleased with the new direction of the company and the lingering doubts about Tony’s physical and mental health and _why is there a reporter in here Tony, don’t you know better?_

He watches Peter leave over Obie’s shoulder and sighs, tapping his fingers idly against the new reactor and he could swear he still feels Peter’s hands on his skin.

  
  


* * *

Steve sits on the exam table in the lab, shivering at the cold air while a team of doctors examine him. He smiles weakly at Peggy, Bucky and Peter, all watching in the observation room while the serum enhancement system is prepared.

Tony rolls over on a stool and smiles up at him, hand landing on his knee gently. “Hey, I know it’s scary, but I promise, if you can’t handle it or it starts to go wrong, we’ll get you out of there immediately,” he promises.

“Yea, okay,” Steve agrees, gaze flicking up to his trio of family and then back to Tony nervously, “Can they hear us?” he whispers, keeping a neutral smile on his face and widening it a bit as he looks back up to them.

“JARVIS, mute observation room one please,” Tony murmurs, and moments later nods to Steve. “What’s up?” he asks, gaze steady and concerned.

Steve hesitates a moment and then asks, “Will this make me different? As a person? You said it enhanced the people who took it and they turned out to be monsters. Will it do that to me?”

Tony studies him a moment and then shakes his head, “It enhances what’s already inside you. What’s bad gets worse and what’s good gets better. And from what I’ve gotten to know, you’re a damn good man Rogers.”

Steve can feel his cheeks flush and ducks his head before shaking it slowly and looking back up at the older man, “Thank you Mr. Stark,” he murmurs gratefully.

“Hey, just Tony, got it?”

He grins and hops off the table when Tony rolls back, following him over to the pod that will change everything about him, down to his DNA. He settles inside and waves to the trio behind the glass, nerves making his stomach flutter.

“You ready?” Tony asks softly, flanked by two very serious looking doctors.

Steve nods and swallows hard, “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he replies, smiling weakly.

Tony grins, “See you on the other side then kid.”

The pod door closes with a clang and there’s a whirring sound, then dozens of needles slide into his skin and spine and he screams, clenching his teeth against the pain and a white light flares, grows brighter and brighter and….

* * *

“Steven Grant Rogers put me down this instant!”

Peter laughs brightly, watching as Steve grins and secures Peggy over his shoulder with one hand, holding onto her as he spins her around in the living room of their new house.

With the addition of Bucky’s paycheck from SI as their newest member of security for Tony and Steve’s teaching job taking off, the trio had been able to purchase a house not far from their old apartment, but this time they had a yard, a tree in the back and enough rooms for a studio for Steve to paint.

Peter grins at the good mood infecting the air of the housewarming party. MJ and Pepper are sitting together on the couch, Pepper’s long legs draped over MJ’s lap so the younger woman can trail her fingers over them absently as they talk. It’s taken some time, but Pepper has warmed up to him, and he’s not sure if it’s MJ’s encouragement, Tony’s doing, or perhaps a combination, but he’s glad he can at least consider her a friendly acquaintance now.

He and Ned bicker over go fish while Bucky and Natasha stand together at the stove, talking quietly, laughing occasionally. It’s the first time Peter’s seen the normally solemn lawyer since Bucky was arrested, and before that he hadn’t seen her since Vietnam. She’s quiet, not that she was ever a very loquacious person to begin with, but he can recall a few times during the war she had made him laugh, and it’s good to see her doing it once more.

Steve sets Peggy down and then tugs her into his broad arms, grinning as he spins her and sways to the music, mouth against her ear so whatever he’s saying doesn’t get heard by the group. Peter raises a brow when he sees Peggy blush and nod before lifting her chin so the now much taller man can kiss her.

It’s two weeks to Christmas and it’s cold and snowy out, but instead of the normally dark and depressive mood it induces, Peter’s heart feels lighter than it has in years. He’s here with his friends, with the people he loves the most and it’s perfect.

Tony’s face flashes in his mind and he adjusts that statement; almost perfect.

He’s thought a lot about those almost kisses with Tony, about the times they spend together in his lab, working on the serum code, talking and laughing, the air stretched thin between them with desire. They haven’t talked about it, and he’s not sure what he’d say if they did; he’s told May about Tony and his burgeoning feelings, and as he suspected she might be, she hadn’t been particularly pleased.

He thinks that if he introduces Tony to her she’ll see that he’s not the man she thinks he is—that he’s not the man Peter had thought he was.

He’s better.

There’s a knock at the door and while the rest of the group is preoccupied dancing, drinking and laughing, Peter hurries to answer it. A blast of freezing air whips past him as he opens the door, stunned for a moment when he sees Tony standing on the stoop.

“Hey!” Tony breathes warmly, dark eyes gleaming in the streetlight and snow as air blooms in a cloud around his head. Tony shivers and they stare at each other for a moment before Peter hurries to step aside and let him in.

“Hi,” he murmurs shyly, cheeks flushing at the fact he’d just been daydreaming a little about what it would be like to be with the man in front of him.

He hasn’t seen the older man in a week; travel had taken Peter to Geneva for a meeting of the G-10 which meant a whole week of economic policy and trade negotiations and political speeches before he got to come home.

He takes Tony’s coat and hangs it up, fingers brushing over the nape of the older man’s neck so they both shiver and then step apart, a careful distance between them. “It’s good to see you,” he breathes, smiling softly as Tony rocks on his toes and gives him a smile that Peter’s learning means he’s secretly pleased and doesn’t want to let on.

That’s another thing—he knows Tony’s expressions now; which smiles are real and which are for the cameras, what a laugh sounds like when Tony’s cracked a part of the serum versus when he’s dealing with a member of the press, and suddenly, he realizes that he _knows_ Tony—not just the man the cameras see—Tony Stark—but the real man that’s hidden behind miles of armor and acerbic wit.

Tony holds out a bottle of wine that looks more expensive than any Peter’s ever bought, grinning when Peter takes it and studies the label. “I’ve got so many bottles in my wine cellar I just grabbed one,” Tony confesses with a light laugh, “I hope it’s okay.”

“I’m sure it’s better than the wine we have,” Peter tells him over his shoulder as he leads him into the living room. There’s a general cry of welcome and Peter notes that MJ and Pepper don’t move, though the older woman smirks and lifts a brow at her boss and then laughs when Tony wiggles his fingers at her in greeting.

“Looking pretty comfortable there Pep,” he comments lightly before he’s pulled away from where he’s been at Peter’s side to be thanked once more by Peggy and Bucky and Steve.

Peter lingers, watching the way Tony brushes off the compliments and the effusive praise and if it were anyone else Peter would think it didn’t matter to him, but Peter can see the pleasure in Tony’s eyes and knows how much this must mean to him.

Tony joins he and Ned for a few rounds of go fish before he tries to convince them to play poker, which Ned vehemently refuses to do because, “Peter learned in Vietnam and they all taught him how to cheat.”

Peter denies it but grins at Tony and leans over to whisper in his ear, “Just because I can count cards and remember where they are in the deck, he thinks I’m cheating.”

Tony bursts out laughing and shakes his head with a grin, “Remind me to take you to Vegas,” he jokes before rising and going to pour himself a drink, leaving Peter behind to wonder if that was a joke or a serious offer. Sometimes he can’t tell with Tony what’s a joke because the man has so much money that there’s almost nothing Peter could ask for that Tony wouldn’t give to him.

It’s a little daunting, liking Tony and being in his orbit; it’s like a gravitational pull he can’t resist, but now that he’s here, he can’t imagine ever _not_ being with Tony.

They eat dinner at the large table in the dining room, drinking and laughing and telling stories and when dessert is finished and everyone is overly full and half asleep, Peggy raps her knuckles on the table, drawing attention to herself.

“I want to say thank you for each of you coming tonight. When I came to America twelve years ago I hated it, I was lonely and lost in a culture I didn’t understand. And then I met Bucky and Peter when we went to war, and I learned what friendship and love could do and I thought my life was pretty damn perfect.”

She pauses and grins, reaches over to take Steve’s large hand, “And then we met Steve and it was like a missing puzzle piece just snapped into place. With each of you coming into our lives it’s felt like that puzzle has grown more complete, and the picture is clearer.”

Turning her gaze to Tony, she studies him for a moment and then smiles softly, “We didn’t expect to receive your generosity Tony, let alone call you a dear friend, but I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for Steve and our family.”

Peter is pretty sure he sees tears glisten in Tony’s eyes but the older man hides it well with a nod and a gulp of whiskey, throat working hard before he lifts his gaze and finds Peter’s eyes, the emotion there taking his breath away.

“And that’s why I want you all to know, that there’s a new puzzle piece. We’re going to have a baby,” Peggy announces, breaking into a grin as the table is momentarily silent before erupting into a cacophony of joy.

Hugs and tears are shared and shed in equal measure and before Peter knows it he’s been asked to be godfather and Tony is looking at him like he’s never seen something so amazing and then they’re all piling into the living room to drink cocoa and watch a holiday special on tv.

He and Tony sit on the floor together, leaning back against the couch, pressed together from shoulder to hip and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to lean his head on Tony’s shoulder halfway through the movie when his eyes grow too heavy to keep open.

Eventually he’s roused by people leaving and gathers himself, hugging MJ and Pepper and Ned before waving goodbye to his friends and stumbling out into the cold. Tony isn’t far behind and he grabs Peter’s arm, “Are you _walking_ home?” he asks incredulously.

“Yea, it’s not far, maybe twenty minutes,” Peter tells him with a shrug.

Tony stares at him like he’s crazy before huffing a sigh and turning up the collar of his jacket, “Well, lead the way, I’m not letting you walk home alone in this cold.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“I _want to_ Peter, now, are you gonna walk or are we going to freeze our balls off?”

Peter grins and shakes his head, “Yea alright, c’mon,” he murmurs, turning towards home.

As they walk they discuss the progress they’ve made on the serum, what Geneva was like— _I should take you to Italy, you’d love it—_ Tony says like that’s not something huge and amazing, and when Peter glances over at him in surprise, Tony looks momentarily uncertain and apologizes— _presumptuous, sorry, bad habit_ —he mutters.

“I’d love to see Italy,” Peter tells him honestly, “is that where your family is from?” he asks curiously, gaze traveling over Tony’s dark hair and Mediterranean features.

The older man grins, “My mother was from Sicily and my father’s family was from Naples, so about as different as two Italians can be,” he tells Peter, “She was twelve years younger than him and a genius in her own right. She went to school for economics and helped her father build his clothing store into a line that’s got stores all over the world now.”

There’s something heartbreakingly fond in the way Tony speaks of his mother and it makes Peter pull his hand from his pocket to reach out and squeeze the older man’s arm, smiling softly when Tony looks over in surprise.

“I’m so sorry she’s gone,” he murmurs, throat working hard around the words before they spill out, “my parents died when I was seven. Plane crash.” He lowers his gaze to the slushy sidewalk and can feel Tony staring at him so he keeps going, “my aunt and uncle adopted me and raised me, and they were the only parents I ever really knew, you know? What I remember of my parents is fuzzy and I’m not sure sometimes if it’s a memory or wishful thinking, but, they were pretty great, from what I remember.”

They lapse into silence after that, elbows nudging occasionally as they hurry toward Peter’s apartment, fat snowflakes falling onto their heads as the yellow street lights flicker and buzz overhead.

Peter hesitates at the foot of the stairs and finds himself leaning towards Tony, biting his lip against the invitation to come inside, stomach fluttering as the older man stares down at him, eyes dark and wanting. There’s something in the way Tony looks at him that makes his skin feel too tight, want burning just under the surface and he can’t help thinking about what it would be like to _finally_ kiss him.

Before he can decide one way or the other Tony huffs out what sounds like _fuck it_ and then he’s stepping towards Peter, closing the distance between them and his hands are in Peter’s hair and on his neck as he tilts his chin and kisses him.

A surprised breathy sound punches out of Peter and he just stands there for a moment before his heart kickstarts and he’s reaching up to grab Tony’s shoulders to tug him down harder, a soft eager noise slipping past his lips. He can smell whatever cologne Tony wears and underneath it the tang of whiskey and warm skin and he has the urge to slip his lips down Tony’s throat to see if it tastes like any of those things, but for now he just revels in the kiss.

They kiss slow and sweet in the faded flickering glow of the street lamp, snow melting on heated skin and sticking to their clothes and hair until Tony breaks away and starts trailing his lips over Peter’s jaw and throat and that’s when he gains some sense and pushes the older man back marginally.

Tony stares at him with wide dark eyes, a silent question there that Peter’s happy to answer. “Why don’t we take this inside?” he offers quietly, hand sliding from Tony’s shoulder to his wrist. Peter laces their fingers together and pulls Tony gently towards the stairs and they climb the three flights in silence, fingers woven together tightly.

When the door shuts behind them he hurries to turn the knobs on the radiator, banging on it with his fist before it clangs and starts putting out heat. He’s flushed with embarrassment as he turns back to find Tony watching him with this fond little smile curling his lips and he suddenly feels shy.

“Sorry, it’ll get warm soon,” he promises, shedding his coat and taking Tony’s to hang up, pausing on his way back from the closet when Tony grabs his wrist gently and tugs him closer, hesitating a breath away before he’s being kissed again and he melts into the embrace.

“I have a good way to warm up,” Tony murmurs softly, grinning against his lips before his hands slip down to Peter’s waist, guiding him with ease over to his lumpy couch. Tony pulls him down as he lays back, Peter’s weight settling on his elbows as the rest of his body aligns perfectly with Tony’s.

Tony kisses him again, languid and hot, hands pushing up the back of his shirt so he shivers at the cold touch of his fingers at the small of his back. Tony chuckles, “Sorry,” he whispers, peppering kisses against his lips in apology, “this okay?” he asks, pressing his fingers into Peter’s spine.

“Y-yeah, this, this is great,” Peter breathes, breath hitching when Tony kisses him again, winding his fingers through Tony’s thick black hair so he can tilt the older man’s face back and deepen it. He’s not sure how much time passes like that; the snow keeps falling outside and the apartment grows humid, windows fogging as they lay together, soft noises of pleasure slipping from Peter’s throat.

Eventually he works a hand between them and slides it under Tony’s shirt, breaking away from his delicious mouth to trail his lips over Tony’s throat and he can feel the older man’s pulse beating rapidly in the hollow of his throat, and as his fingers creep higher Tony makes a noise and grabs his wrist, halting his progress.

When he pulls back to study Tony’s face he finds hesitancy there and leans up to nudge Tony’s nose with his before kissing him softly, “What’s up?” he asks, suddenly aware of everywhere they’re pressed together, hot and hard and insistent. Swallowing hard, he pushes away the awareness of his cock and focuses on Tony.

The older man hesitates and then sighs, “I...I want you. But, I made some bad choices after I got back and I-I’m clean, but, I think I’d like to take it slow with you.” He stares up at Peter, searching his gaze like he’s looking for the answer to some unasked question and nods, “You’re special to me and I don’t...I want to do this right,” he murmurs, sounding young and scared and entirely unlike the man Peter’s gotten to know in the last four months.

Peter’s a little stunned by the admission, but as it sinks in he can’t stop the smile spreading on his face, the heat building in his cheeks as he nods and Tony breathes easier beneath him. “I’d love to take it slow Tony. You’re...you’re so special to me too and I want you to be happy.”

He leans down to kiss Tony and smiles when the older man shifts and laces their fingers together, warmth settling in his chest so he feels breathless and strung tight and he breathes into Tony’s mouth a soft sight of delight.

He can’t explain it, but this might just be everything he’s ever been looking for.


	11. Crazy Little Thing Called Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter takes care of Tony, Rhodey faces a deadline, the boys ready the nursery, and it's Valentine's Day.

Tony glances up from where he’s been tinkering with the various parts to the suit he’s been working on for weeks now. He and JARVIS have run all the specs and though he knows there’s terabytes of data left to download and more modifications to make before it’s actually ready, he’s more hopeful about it than he’s been about anything else in...years.

“J-man, gimme a full spectrum analysis on flight capabilities with these repulsors and flight stabilizers.”

“Yes sir, right away.”

He grins and tinkers with a boot, frowning as soldering smoke wafts up past his face. He doesn’t hear the lab doors opening and doesn’t register that someone has entered the room till there’s a warm presence behind him and a set of lips on his neck that startles him up and has him spinning around on his stool to face a snickering Peter.

“You just scared a year off my life Parker, you owe me,” he says with a grin, already reaching out to slide his hands around the younger man’s waist.

Peter winds his arms around Tony’s neck, grinning back, “What did you have in mind as far as payment?” he purrs, gaze falling to Tony’s lips for a moment before glancing back up and leaning in, hips bracketed by Tony’s knees.

“Hmmm, how about a kiss?” Tony murmurs, tilting his chin up towards Peter, lips quirking as Peter’s eyes sparkle with amusement.

“A kiss, huh?” Peter says thoughtfully, giving Tony a playful smile, “Well sir, that’s an awfully tall order, but, I think I can make that happen,” he murmurs, leaning in till he can press his lips against Tony’s and it’s a moment of pure joy that makes his chest feel like it might burst it’s so full.

Peter’s fingers twine through Tony’s hair, tugging lightly as his tongue flicks over his lower lip and heat curls through Tony’s stomach, a low groan echoing from deep in his chest. Tony smiles against his lips and tugs on the loops of Peter’s belt, pulling him closer till their chests are pressed together and he can slide his hands up under Peter’s shirt, palms skimming over the smooth skin of his back.

Peter’s breath hitches against Tony’s lips, fingers knotting in his hair and heat pulses into his stomach, want slowly simmering up in his veins. He swallows hard and pulls away slowly, lashes fluttering against his cheeks for a moment before he opens his eyes and finds Peter breathing unsteadily, cheeks pink and lips glistening.

_Fuck_ he’s so beautiful it makes Tony’s stomach hurt.

“Well, that’s a nice hello,” he murmurs raspily, “What did I do to earn that?” he asks softly, nails scraping over Peter’s back, watching as a shudder runs over his body before his eyes open and he smiles sweetly down at Tony.

“Hmm, maybe cause I like you?” Peter says with grin, fingers twining through Tony’s hair over and over again.

“Eh can’t be that,” Tony quips half sarcastically, “nobody actually likes me.”

Peter’s brow furrows and he looks unhappy, strokes his fingers down Tony’s cheek, “I like you Tony. A lot.” When Tony just makes a noncommittal noise Peter presses his thumb into Tony’s chin and lifts it so he’s forced to meet that warm honey gaze.

“I like you Tony, and I’m very happy to see you right now,” Peter tells him quietly, forcefully. He studies Tony for a moment and then sighs, glancing up, “JARVIS when was the last time he slept? Or ate?”

“JARVIS don’t you dare—”

“It has been 29 hours and 37 minutes since Sir ate—in that time he has consumed 13 cups of coffee and has slept approximately 29 minutes.”

“Traitor,” Tony huffs under his breath, wincing when Peter turns an unhappy gaze on him.

“JARVIS, make note of the progress Tony has made,” Peter orders and then grabs his arm, tugging on it with a very determined look that Tony suspects won’t bode well for his desire to keep working.

“C’mon,” Peter urges, drawing him up off the stool and he winces because oh yea, he’s been sitting for the better part of a day and he hasn’t slept or eaten and maybe _that’s_ why he’s had such a hard time concentrating.

He allows Peter to drag him out of the lab and into the elevator before he turns the tables and loops his arm around the younger man’s shoulders and tugs him close so he can rest his forehead against the mop of unruly curls that smell like snow and green apples and he imagines for a moment what it would be like to wake up with that smell on his pillows and this man in his arms.

It’s a good idea, one he could definitely get on board with, and given how Peter leans into him with a soft sigh, one that maybe he would be able to have without too much effort.

His eyes are heavy by the time the elevator doors open into his penthouse and then Peter is propelling him into the kitchen and forcing him into a seat while he scrounges food from the fridge and cupboards.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Tony asks stupidly, glancing out that window to confirm that yes, it’s daylight which means normal people are out doing whatever normal people do, so why is Peter here?

“I’m working on a follow up to the bombing of the protest. An FBI agent has agreed to speak with me and I told him I’d see him this afternoon.”

He nods and watches as Peter manages to turn the meager ingredients in his kitchen into a quiche, the warm heady smell of cheese and meat making his stomach rumble loudly. Peter shoots him a wry grin over his shoulder, “After you eat please take a nap,” he says, eyes lined with concern. “You work too hard.”

Tony snorts, “Says the kid who nearly got run over while trying to get a quote from my leading competitor—though that’s a generous description of Hammer,” he says with a smirk, “I think this a pot/kettle situation,” he tells Peter with a grin.

“Maybe, but I have a vested interest in keeping you healthy and happy,” Peter says as he slides a plate toward Tony, laden with quiche, apple slices, wedges of cheese and cherry tomatoes that glisten in the fluorescent lights overhead.

“Oh? And what’s that?” he retorts before taking a bite of quiche and being effectively silenced by the explosion of heat and flavor on his tongue.

“Sex.”

The wry admission has him choking and Peter grins as he slaps his back, laughter teasing the corners of his lips up and narrowing his eyes as he leans on the island and grins at Tony.

“I-Uh-”

“And I happen to like you very much and I want to see you happy. So do me a favor and eat all of that before you nap, hmm?” Peter murmurs, sliding around the island to sidle up to him, hand resting on Tony’s knee while he tangles his fingers into his hair and kisses him again.

Tony finds himself leaning into it, a little breathless when Peter pulls back and smiles softly at him, “I’ll know from JARVIS if you don’t and there will be consequences,” he teases gently before pulling away and looking down at his watch. “I gotta go, promise me you’ll get some rest?” he asks, brow furrowing with concern.

Tony drops all pretense and nods, making an X over his heart, “Promise,” he murmurs softly, smiling when Peter leans in to kiss him one last time.

When the elevator doors slide shut and he’s alone once more it takes him awhile to realize that he’s still smiling and the plate of food is long empty and he’s just sitting here like a grinning fool, but damn if he can’t bring himself to give a shit because he hasn’t been this happy….

Ever?

It’s simultaneously the most amazing and overwhelming thought and he has to take a deep breath before he can get up and take his dish to the sink.

He stands there, staring out at the grey January day, a smile creeping back over his face and then shakes his head; it’s time for a nap.

* * *

Peter frowns down at the photos he’s developed, jaw gritting when he sees yet more spidering and white splotches. There’s something damaged inside the camera from the bombing and despite his best efforts he hasn’t been able to figure out what’s broken.

It’s no use asking if the paper will supply him with a new camera, Jameson has already made clear that won’t happen with the paper’s limited budget which means a new one will have to come out of _his_ limited budget and it’s not going to be a good one either.

Tony must hear his sigh because he glances up from where he’s working on serum protein chains and furrows his brow at Peter. “What’s wrong?” he asks, turning away from the holographic display to give Peter his full attention.

Peter sighs again and shakes his head, lifting the photos to show Tony, “My pictures are ruined again. Something is wrong with the camera and I haven’t been able to fix it and the paper won’t pay for a new one—we have to supply our own,” he tells Tony unhappily.

Tony makes a soft humming noise and scratches his chin, “I can get you one,” he offers and Peter’s already shaking his head _no_ , “that’s okay Tony, it’ll be fine, I can get one secondhand,” he tells the older man.

Tony frowns but nods, “Yea, okay,” he agrees, but Peter thinks he doesn’t sound very happy about it. To distract him, Peter puts aside the photos and goes over to lean on Tony’s shoulder, pointing to the holographic display, “What if we rearrange these peptides and block that transmitter?” he suggests and just like that they’re off on a discussion of biochemistry that provides a distraction to them both.

He watches as Tony talks; hands waving in the air and brow furrowing as he explains an idea and he can’t help but smile because this man, this incredibly intelligent, powerful, wealthy man is just a regular nerd and he can’t quite help himself when he reaches out for Tony from where he’s sitting on the work table and draws him between his legs for a long, lingering kiss that leaves the older man dazed and speechless for a few moments.

Tony stares at him for a moment and then grins, eyes alight as he goes back to explaining the idea they’ve been working on, Peter’s chin resting on his shoulder so he can turn his head and offer his opinion directly into Tony’s ear or even more pleasing, place soft kisses behind his ear and feel the full body shiver that it induces.

He can’t remember a time he’s been happier.

* * *

“I’m just saying baby, you’re not happy at the Bugle, you haven’t been for years, so why don’t you apply somewhere else? The Times made you such a good offer when your stories about Vietnam were printed, isn’t it possible they still want you?”

May looks up at him with wide, concerned eyes, and it makes his heart hurt, knowing how much she loves him, how much she cares about his life, how much she’s sacrificed to take care of him. Sighing softly, he sinks down on the couch and hands her a mug of coffee, noting the dark circles under her eyes from too many shifts at the VA hospital and not enough sleep.

“They wanted me then because the war was still relevant and if they had a writer fresh from the front lines they could make it part of their brand. I didn’t...I couldn’t...you know how I was then, I was a mess, I could barely get out of bed and I wasn’t in any shape to write like they wanted me to and I took the job at the Bugle because it was what I could manage.”

May sighs and reaches out to stroke his cheek with her knuckles, a soft, fond look on her face. “I know Peter, I just want you to be happy.”

Peter sighs softly and reaches up to lace his fingers with hers, smiling affectionately, “I am May, I promise, the paper might be a pretty terrible place to work, but I’m happy. Things are going so well for Steve and Peggy and Bucky—did I tell you they’re having a baby?” he exclaims.

“What?! You most certainly did not! Do they know who the father is?” she asks excitedly, eyes wide as she leans forward, eager for information.

“They don’t, but it doesn’t matter anyway. Right now they’re figuring out names and putting together the nursery. I’m actually going over there tomorrow to help.”

May grins, “That’s awesome honey, give Peggy my love and let her know if she needs anything I’m here for her.”

“I will,” Peter agrees, squeezing her hand gently. He hesitates for a moment and then lowers his gaze, “I need your advice,” he starts, “It’s almost Valentine’s Day and I want to get Tony something, but, I mean, he can buy himself anything, so what do you get the man who has everything already?” he asks, glancing back up at her to measure her reaction.

May stares at him for a moment, mouth pursed and then sighs, shaking her head. “I dunno, what does he like?” she asks neutrally.

“Cars, art, mechanics, science.”

She nods, “Well, why don’t you take him to that car show that’s happening in two weeks? I bet he’d love that,” she suggests, smiling when a grin breaks out on his face.

“That’s such a good idea May, thank you!”

She laughs when he hugs her and pats his back, “No problem honey. As long as he makes you happy,” she says and he thinks it sounds like a warning. He’s pretty sure if Tony ever hurts him she’ll go and rip his balls off with a grin on her face which is a slightly disturbing thought, but a comforting one, nonetheless.

Knowing he has someone who is 100% in his corner no matter what—that’s more than most people can say.

* * *

_He’s silent, hidden behind his sunglasses as the priest drones on about loss and love and eternal rewards and with every moment that passes his chest grows tighter till he feels like he’s going to burst apart at the seams and collapse inward like a black hole._

_His hands shake so he shoves them into his pockets, Obie’s hand heavy on his shoulder, holding him in place and keeping him from bolting. The older man had given him something this morning to help him relax, washed it down with a glass of his fa—Howard’s finest scotch and now everything is a little numb around the edges._

_The priest asks if he’d like to say anything, but there aren’t words for this, nothing he says will change who his—who Howard was and how he acted, and it certainly won’t bring his mother back._

_Obie steps forward and speaks, some bullshit story about Howard being a good man and all his contributions to history and Tony feels bile in the back of his throat rise, bitter and tangy. He swallows it back down and lets everything pass by him, disconnected and numb._

_The mansion is crowded with mourners and it’s hard to breathe, too loud and close and fake, so fake, so he runs, hides himself in the workshop and swallows some of his mother’s pills and sips from a bottle of scotch till things start to get fuzzy._

_He slumps against the wall and runs his fingers over the wood, a distant ache in his chest. His memories of this place aren’t particularly pleasant so he takes another sip of scotch and ponders the box cutter on the work table._

_It would be easy…_

_His fingers shake as he sheds his jacket and rolls up his sleeves, stares down at the blue veins under his skin, wonders how long it would take him to bleed out before anyone noticed._

**_Would_ ** _anyone notice?_

_The blade springs forth with a click of a button and he holds it against his skin, shaking and breathing too loudly, cursing himself when he can’t draw it over his wrist._

_Useless, just like Howard had always said._

_Can’t even do_ **_this_ ** _right._

_He makes a broken noise and draws it sharply over the skin, gasping at the tearing sensation, the familiar sting of pain clearing his head. He tosses aside the blade and watches his blood flow out, bright red and shiny; viscous drops falling to the floor as he breathes unevenly._

_The door cracks open and it takes him a moment to place the person standing there, but when he does he feels something for the first time in a week._

_“Rhodey,” he gasps, lifting a hand weakly as tears burn in his eyes and his chest cracks open and there’s an odd noise in the room, and he doesn’t realize it’s him, sobbing, until Rhodey is on his knees, holding Tony._

_He clings to Rhodey and sobs, it hurts it hurts it hurts and he just wants to kill it all away, but he can’t, he remembers everything, feels everything and he just wants it to end._

_“Everyone goes away,” he sobs, “I’m alone, I’m alone,” he gasps out, shaking apart piece by piece. Rhodey hushes him and holds him tighter, one hand fisting his hair as the other bands hot and hard across his back._

_Eventually he sobs himself into exhaustion and Rhodey uses his tie to bind the wound on his wrist, pulls Tony’s head into his lap, fingers brushing through his hair gently._

_“You’re not alone Tony, I’m right here. I’ll always be here. You’re my family, I’m not going anywhere.”_

_His breath hitches and his tears are silent this time as he buries his face in Rhodey’s stomach; he’d wanted to feel something, to know that he could still, but it’s all too much, too painful and he hurts, hurts so badly he can’t stand it so he closes his eyes and cries and cries and cries until he can’t, and when he falls asleep it’s in the safety of Rhodey’s arms._

* * *

Rhodey sighs as Tony draws yet more blood, flexing his fingers slowly to ease away the ache in his arm and smiling softly when Tony presses a swab to the crook of his arm, his fingers replacing Tony’s as he bends his elbow and watches his best friend dart around the lab, brow furrowing as he “does science.”

The treatment he’s been on has been mostly working; the weight loss had stopped and the lesions in his mouth had gone away, and the night sweats had thankfully ended, but that didn’t mean he was better, he knew he wasn’t, this was still a death sentence.

Tony’s sigh interrupts his thoughts and he looks up to find the other man pressing his head to the table, defeat in every line of his shoulders. His heart drops into his stomach and he has to look away, bitter disappointment heavy on his tongue and he thinks for a moment he might be sick, but he swallows hard and wipes a hand over his face, pushing back the tidal wave of emotion threatening to drown him.

When he looks up, he finds Tony staring at him, worry in his dark eyes and a moment later Tony’s by his side, grasping his hand so tightly his joints hurt. “I promise Rhodey, I’m going to figure this out,” he murmurs intently, “I won’t rest until I find a way to fix this,” he says, a tremor in his voice, eyes suspiciously bright.

Rhodey’s throat goes thick and he nods, averting his gaze, “I know Tones, but I uh, I have a physical coming up in a month, and I think when they find out they’re going to drum me out of the service.” He swallows hard and shakes his head, “I’m gonna lose it all,” he says on half a sob, turning into the fierce embrace Tony wraps him in.

He clings to Tony, scared and sick and desperate, and cries silently, everything he thought his future held crumbling to ash in front of his eyes.

* * *

Peter looks up in surprise at the sound of Tony’s voice, a smile spreading on his face as Bucky ushers the older man into the nursery. He wipes his hands off hastily on his jeans and rises up to greet him, pleasure fading when he sees the haunted look in his eyes, hidden by the fake smile that Peter’s sure is for the benefit of Steve and Bucky.

He can feel the shudder that passes over Tony’s body when he hugs him, so he holds him a few moments longer, carding his fingers through his dark hair and smiling faintly at Bucky over Tony’s shoulder. His friend just winks at him and goes back to Steve, the pair arguing quietly in the corner over the paint colors Steve had chosen.

“You okay?” he asks softly, rubbing soothing circles over Tony’s back, smiling faintly when the older man just makes a muffled sound against his shoulder. “Have you eaten today?” he murmurs, rolling his eyes when Tony makes another noncommittal noise. “Okay, well, Bucky has lasagna in the oven for us, but for now we’re going to paint, sound good?” he says, pulling back a bit so he can smile at Tony.

He can see the exhaustion in Tony’s face and cups his face, thumb stroking over his sharp cheekbone, smiling softly when Tony leans into it, eyes closing. Peter can’t help himself, he leans in and presses his lips to Tony’s brow, inhaling the scent of his cologne and the warm musk of his skin.

“C’mon,” he whispers, “come help me paint.” He smiles at Tony and takes his hand, tugging him over to Steve and Bucky and before he knows it they’re all covered in paint and the walls are a beautiful sunny yellow. Puffy white clouds spread onto the sky blue ceiling and Peter takes a moment to admire Steve’s skill. In addition to the clouds and sky, Steve had painted a grey tree with a small gold cage hanging from the branches and birds, flying free.

The chandelier light hanging from the ceiling had been wired and hung with precision by Tony, the hundreds of tiny origami cranes folded with painstaking care by Bucky. There was still work to be done, but for now they were finished; paint splattered, tired and hungry.

Peter watches Tony carefully while they eat and when Steve and Bucky invite them to stay and watch the game he carefully declines, telling them something about developing photos and work, his hand resting on the small of Tony’s back as he ushers him out to the street. Happy pokes his head out of the car and Peter huffs a little, rolling his eyes when he realizes how long the man must have been sitting here waiting for Tony.

Tony grins at him sheepishly but doesn’t protest when Peter slides into the car beside him, lacing their fingers together and leaning his head on Tony’s shoulder. They’re silent on the ride and after a few blocks he feels Tony shift and then lay his head gently on top of his and he can’t help but smile. He’s half dozing when they pull into the garage and when they step out, Tony looks much the same, though in this light the dark circles under his eyes are more prominent and Peter’s heart squeezes painfully.

When Tony tries to head to his lab, Peter tugs on his hand and shakes his head, “C’mon, I’m tired, let’s lay down,” he murmurs, surprised when Tony stares at him for a minute before nodding and follows him up to the penthouse. Peter’s been here a few times now and he knows the layout, so he only hesitates for a moment before guiding Tony to his bedroom.

“You know if you wanted to get me in bed you just have to ask,” Tony teases tiredly and Peter grins at him good naturedly, shaking his head as he kicks off his sneakers and hangs his coat over the nearby chair.

“Will you go to bed with me Tony?” he asks with a wry little grin, holding out his hand as he steps backward toward the huge, lush looking bed. Tony follows him with a grin, shedding his paint splattered tshirt and jeans so he’s left in a black tank top and briefs.

“I’ll go wherever you want me baby,” Tony purrs, giving him a lascivious look that has Peter blushing and laughing, shaking his head as he too strips off his paint flecked clothing till he’s in just his briefs.

Peter lays on his side and watches as Tony slides into bed beside him, muscles flexing as he reaches out and slides his hand around Peter’s hip, drawing him closer. Their feet tangle together beneath the thousand thread count sheets and Tony smiles faintly down at him, head propped up on one hand as his fingers trace nonsensical patterns on Peter’s skin.

He lifts a hand to trace over the lines of Tony’s face, watching as his eyes fall shut and he relaxes into the touch. He’s seen Tony exhausted in his lab before—chased him to the couch to take a nap or made him eat something when it’s been too long, but this, this isn’t just exhaustion, it’s something soul deep that has him heartsick and weary.

“Rhodey has a physical in three weeks,” Tony whispers, opening his eyes slowly to peer down at Peter who, for the life of him can’t figure out why that would make Tony so scared and unhappy. “He has AIDS and they’re going to find out and he’s going to be kicked out of the military and I can’t get the serum to work and he’s going to _die_ and it’s all my fault.”

Tony’s breathing unsteadily by the time he’s done and Peter sits up, wide eyed, because _holy shit_. He’s speechless for a moment before his brain suddenly kicks in and he grabs Tony’s arm, “That’s not going to happen. We’re going to find a way to treat him and everyone else. I promise,” he whispers urgently, “We’ll find a way.”

Tony stares at him for a moment before tears well in his eyes and he nods brokenly, sniffling and glancing away. “Please don’t say anything to anyone about—it could get him in a lot of trouble,” he says, voice hoarse and uneven.

Peter sits up further and squeezes Tony’s arm, drawing his gaze back. “I would _never_ ,” he promises, staring intently into the other man’s eyes, hoping he’ll see the truth shining from Peter’s eyes. Tony nods and swipes a hand over his eyes, shuddering out an unsteady breath and gives him a weak, shaky smile.

Without hesitation Peter pulls Tony to him, slumping down against the pillows as Tony’s head nuzzles under his chin, his large rough hand splayed out over Peter’s chest, feeling for the steady beat of his heart beneath his palm. Peter cards his fingers through Tony’s hair, holding him close as he hums a tuneless song, smiling as he feels the body in his arms go lax, breathing evening out into slow steady breaths.

He can’t sleep quite yet, so he calls out quietly for JARVIS and has him display the work Tony and the research team have been doing on the serum, studying it and toying with the DNA chains and proteins and receptors until his eyes are gritty and the clock beside Tony’s bed reads 2:47am. He has JARVIS save his work separately and sinks down into the mattress, smiling when Tony shifts closer, one leg slung over his hips pinning him in place.

As he drifts, he tangles his fingers in Tony’s hair and thinks that maybe when he wakes up he should kiss this beautiful man who has given him so much and deserves so much more in return. It occurs to him, as he slips into the blurry edges of sleep that he might just be falling in love.

* * *

They’re working in Tony’s lab; Peter scribbling away in a notebook for a story and Tony fine tuning the suit when Tony realizes, suddenly and seemingly out of the blue, that he’s a little in love with Peter.

It’s the oddest thing, because he looks up from where he’s working with JARVIS on the latest revisions to the schematics(he’s thinking about making the suit submersible—the idea of drowning in his own coffin is enough to leave him shaking and in a cold sweat) and he sees Peter in his lab, camera, notebook and photos spread over the desk in the corner and it’s just...right.

Having him here in what has been solely Tony’s space for _years_ should be enough to freak him out, but instead, it makes him smile, a glow warming the inside of his ribs as he studies the way Peter chews at the pen cap before he writes, mouthing words as his brow furrows, scratching things out and then writing furiously before the whole process starts over again.

A thought occurs to him then, and he makes a note of it with JARVIS, sends it into progress a few minutes later once he’s worked out the details and grins, rubbing his hands together, when he thinks of the look on Peter’s face once he sees the finished product. He turns back to the suit with renewed energy and grins when Peter glances up at him, stomach flipping when the younger man’s face breaks out into a brilliant smile in return.

Butterflies dance in his belly and he shoots Peter a wink and a grin, feeling a corresponding blush on his cheeks at the pink that appears in Peter’s. He’s not felt like this in...years, and there’s no way in hell he’s letting it go.

* * *

Peter taps his fingers nervously on the table, glancing at his watch. He and Tony were supposed to be having dinner for Valentine’s Day, but the man was running late apparently, and with no word, he’s begun to worry.

“Mr. Parker?”

He looks up to find a kind faced maitre de hovering nearby.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Stark called and asked me to tell you that he was detained by a terrorist by the name of Miss Potts and will be here shortly. He apologizes profusely and promises he will make it up to you.”

Peter grins and ducks his chin, shaking his head before he looks back to the man and smiles politely, “Thank you. That’s very kind,” he murmurs, nodding as the man backs away. He outright laughs when a waiter appears with a very expensive looking bottle of wine, nodding his thanks at the generous pour he’s given and then sits back and sips on it as he watches the other people in the restaurant from the secluded corner their table is in.

There’s a small commotion a few minutes later and when he looks up, it’s Tony, hurrying over, step in step with the maitre de, the men murmuring intently before the maitre de slips away and Tony slides into the seat across from him, looking deeply apologetic and worried.

“I’m so sorry, Pepper got ahold of me and I couldn’t get away—”

Peter chooses the most effective way of shutting him up and leans across the table to kiss him, grinning when Tony goes very still for a heartbeat before leaning into the embrace. When he pulls away, he can feel the eyes of the patrons on them but very carefully ignores them in favor of enjoying the slightly dazed, heated look in Tony’s eyes.

“Hi,” he murmurs, sliding back into his seat and reaching for his wine.

Tony takes a moment to clear his throat and then smiles softly, “Hi.” He glances over at the wine and pours himself a glass, sipping on it before he hums softly and smiles at Peter, “You look very handsome tonight,” he murmurs and Peter can feel the blush on his cheeks so he takes another sip of wine and ducks his chin, murmuring a quiet thanks.

They order and eat a meal that Peter suspects is more expensive than everything currently in his fridge, but he pushes that thought aside and focuses on the story Tony is telling him about the charity his mother, Maria, had set up when he was a boy.

“So there’s a fundraising gala in a few weeks and I was kind of hoping, well, maybe you’d go with me?”

Peter stares at Tony for a long moment as his stomach flutters and his heart races and all he can think about is how much he wants to take Tony home and get him out of that suit. Swallowing hard, he nods, “I’d love that Tony,” he manages to reply, taking another long sip of wine as Tony’s cheeks turn pink with delight.

“Will we be enjoying dessert tonight?”

Peter glances up at the waiter and then over to Tony, smirking a little, “I think maybe later, when we’re home,” he says, winking at Tony and smiling up at the waiter who has a knowing grin on his face. The man nods and slinks away, leaving Tony and Peter behind in a heated silence, Peter’s foot sliding up and down the back of Tony’s calf while he stares intently at the older man.

“Is it your intention to drive me crazy before we ever get somewhere more private?” Tony asks delicately, taking a large swig of wine, eyes dark and hungry across the table.

“I promise I’ll make it worth the wait,” Peter says softly, biting his lower lip deliberately, heat spreading under his cheeks when Tony’s gaze sticks there for a moment.

When the check arrives Tony tosses down a stack of cash without looking and grabs Peter’s hand, pulling him from the seat and the restaurant as he laughs giddily, heart racing. Happy slides the divider up as he pulls away from the corner and Peter’s across the seat and in Tony’s lap before they get a block away.

Tony groans as Peter licks into his mouth, hands tangling in his hair so he can tilt Tony’s head back and deepen the kiss. Rolling his hips, he pants softly as heat builds in his belly, need thrumming with every beat of his heart. His lips feel bruised as he trails kisses and bites over Tony’s throat, smirking at the low rumbling noise from within the older man’s chest.

Tony’s hands are wrapped around his hips, pulling him down as he rolls up into Peter, both men gasping as Peter’s cock presses into Tony’s belly, Tony’s cock a hard, hot line against Peter’s ass that has him moaning and grinding down into it.

“Fuck, Peter, baby,” Tony pants, hands sliding down to squeeze his ass, “I wanna…” he trails off as Peter starts working a dark mark onto his skin, fingers working to undo another button on Tony’s shirt.

The divider slides down an inch.

“We’re back boss.”

Tony groans as Peter leans into him, laughing against his neck at the untimely interruption, every inch of his body feeling hot and electric. When he starts to move off Tony’s lap, the older man’s hands grip tighter at him, his mouth hungry on Peter’s.

“No, baby, c’mon, stay,” Tony whines, “please.”

Peter laughs and kisses him, “I’m not going to have sex with you in the backseat of your car Tony, but if you get out, I promise I have something you’ll like.”

Tony pouts up at him, “It better be good,” he warns, “I don’t know if my heart or my balls can take it if it’s not.”

Peter bursts out laughing, pressing his face into Tony’s throat, joy filling his veins like champagne; bubbly and warm and utterly transporting.

“Shit, Tony,” he snorts, pulling back to stare fondly at the older man, his face warm from wine and laughter and arousal. Running his fingers over Tony’s cheek, he taps one against Tony’s lips, “I swear, if you get out of this car with me right now, I will make it _very_ worth your while.”

Tony stares at him for another moment and then nods, “Okay.”

Happy ignores their state of dishabille and their roaming hands before they disappear into the elevator, but instead of heading for the penthouse like he expects, Tony sends it to his lab, offering him only a smirk in response to his questioning look.

When the doors open Tony takes his hand and leads him down the hall to the main entrance of the lab, pulling him into the darkened interior and towards the back where Peter knows the secure rooms line the walls.

Maybe Tony wants to have sex with him here?

It’s not the oddest thought—they’ve gotten handsy before here—he glances at the work table in appreciation; he and Tony had made out there last week, Peter grinding on Tony’s thigh until he came in his pants to Tony’s murmured praise in his ear, the memory of his lust roughened voice sending shivers over his skin even now.

That image lingers in his mind as they weave through the room, anticipation filling him even though he had sort of thought if and when Tony was ready to take the next step sexually, it would be, well, more romantic.

They stop in front of a door and Tony turns to him, hope and excitement bright in his gaze. “Close your eyes,” he commands, “for me,” he tacks on when Peter hesitates. There’s something pleading in his gaze, as though he’s begging Peter to trust him, and without much more thought, closes his eyes.

He hears the door open and is tugged in behind Tony, shuffled forward a few steps and then Tony whispers in his ear, “Open your eyes.”

His lashes flutter for a moment before he opens his eyes and when he does…

“Tony,” he breathes, stunned.

He steps forward, amazement coursing through him, chasing away the numbing effect of the shock. Lining the walls are framed photos— _his_ photos from Vietnam and the stories he’s reported on, even the bombing is there too.

On the tables against the far wall are basins and chemicals for developing his photos, and strung from the ceiling are lines of twine for hanging his photos to dry, and “Wow,” he breathes, turning around slowly to find Tony watching him with a mix of apprehension and hope.

Peter stares at him, a smile spreading across his face slowly. He takes careful steps over to Tony, tilting his chin to smile up at him, hands sliding up the older man’s chest. “You did this for me?” he asks softly, wondrously.

Tony nods and points, “There’s one more thing over there for you,” he murmurs, and Peter can’t quite hold back his grin as he steps away to grab the box wrapped in red paper and a gold bow. Tony sidles up behind him, watching over his shoulder as he unwraps it, and Peter’s stomach flutters with excitement.

His hands falter as he opens the box, a gasp of shock slipping from between his lips as he sees what’s inside. “Tony...this is…”

“A canon AE-1. It’s top of the line with an embedded microcomputer. Is it, is it okay?”

Peter stares down at the camera in his hands and can’t decide if he’s going to cry or laugh, and thinks maybe it’ll be both because when he turns to face Tony he has tears in his eyes but he can’t help the laugh that escapes from his lips, watery and a little shaky as he nods.

“Yea, it’s just, I only got you tickets to the car show next week and you built me a dark room and got me a camera,” he explains, laughing as he wipes away the tears that have spilled out.

Tony’s brows shoot up, “You got me tickets for the car show?” he asks, a look of delight filling his face. Peter nods and fumbles them out of his jacket, hands them over so Tony can see, and the genuine pleasure on his face chases away any lingering doubts he has about whether it’s a good enough present.

“This is...really special Peter, thank you,” Tony murmurs, lifting a hand to cup his cheek, dark eyes warm with affection.

Peter leans into the touch and smiles softly, “I wondered what I could get the man who has everything,” he confides, wondering at the look that passes over Tony’s face at his words—it’s dark and troubled, but passes quickly, replaced with a smile he thinks is maybe a mask for something else.

“Peter, you didn’t have to get me anything because every day I’m with you is the best gift I’ve ever gotten,” Tony murmurs intently, leaning in to press his forehead to Peter’s.

“You’re...goddamn, the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he admits, voice shaky and Peter swallows hard, heart racing at the implication in Tony’s words. “I’ll build you as many dark rooms and buy you as many cameras or whatever else you need, because I...I’d do anything to make you even 1/10th as happy as you make me.”

Peter realizes he’s crying again when Tony’s thumb swipes under his eyes and wipes away the wetness. Very carefully, he sets aside the camera and fills his empty hands with fistfuls of Tony’s jacket, tugging him closer till there’s nothing but heat between them. His lips brush against Tony’s and he has to swallow before he can get the words out, but he manages to whisper, “I don’t need anything but you to be happy Tony, just you,” before Tony makes an incomprehensible sound and kisses him.

He’s breathless when Tony finally pulls back, lids hooded as the older man stares down at him hungrily, his large hands spanning Peter’s hips, holding him close so he can feel the hot line of his erection pressing into his hip.

“Peter, will you stay the night?”


	12. Marvin Gaye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony and Peter make love, Tony finishes the suit, and Peter gives him something he didn't know he needed.

Tony is breathless as he waits for Peter to say something, _anything_ to the invitation he’s just extended. They’ve been together since shortly before Christmas and true to his word, they’ve been taking things slow.

He’d never spent time with someone like he did Peter—maybe Pepper, but that had been different, she had always been there because she had to be, and what they had was a mixture of affection and desire borne of both proximity and long term friendship. Now their friendship is like a favorite pair of jeans; comfortable, worn in all the right places and dependable.

What he has with Peter is something he’s never had before; a relationship built on trust and friendship and honesty—given time to grow, nurtured with emotional intimacy and if he’s honest with himself, he’d never thought he’d have something this _good._

Peter means more to him than anyone he’s been with, has quickly taken a place on the list of people he’d willingly do anything for, and it’s a little scary. He can almost hear his father’s voice, calling him stupid for trusting a reporter, for opening up and allowing Peter close, for being stupid enough to think that anyone could want _him_ and not the man he presents to the world—Tony Stark.

But Peter has proven time and again that he’s not interested in the mask, only the man under it, and it makes him a little shaky, breathless to be standing here with him, waiting to see if he’s chosen right, if Peter wants him like he wants Peter—the edge of desperation scaring him a little.

Peter steps in and closes the space between them, his whiskey warm eyes shining up at Tony as he slides his hands up Tony’s chest, wraps his fingers around Tony’s tie and tugs him down for a kiss that makes his heart lurch with its sweetness.

He can still taste the wine on Peter’s tongue from dinner, smell the apple shampoo in his soft curls and when he slides his hands around Peter’s waist and tugs him even closer, it’s so right it sends a shiver over his spine.

Peter pulls back and smiles softly at him, a glaze of concern in his eyes as he toys with Tony’s tie. “You sure you want me to stay? It doesn’t have to mean sex, I love just being with you,” he tells Tony and for some reason, it’s this, this sweetness that pushes Tony over the edge into surety.

“Believe me Peter, I want you. I want you to stay the night. I want to have sex with you and see you in my bed and I want to wake up with you and watch you sleep because I really, really fuckin l-like you,” he babbles, stumbling over the _other_ L word that his heart wants him to say, but he’s too scared to utter quite yet.

Peter stares at him wide eyed while his heart pounds in his chest and then the younger man is twining their fingers together and pulling him out the door and they stumble over each other as they kiss—slamming into walls, laughing and touching, breathless with excitement and he doesn’t even realize they’re in the penthouse till Peter breaks away and starts backing him toward his bed, undressing himself slowly with a dirty, teasing smirk.

He swallows hard and sprawls back on the bed before propping himself up on his elbows to watch as Peter strips away his jacket and tie, kicks off his shoes and peels away his socks, each button of his shirt popped open slowly, so slowly, revealing inch by inch the tanned gold planes of his chest.

Tony watches hungrily as Peter leaves his shirt hanging open, dog tags resting against his breast bone, gleaming in the moonlight and clanking softly when he shifts.

He swallows hard when the younger man steps forward and grabs his tie, pulls him upright and into a filthy kiss that has his trauma damaged heart beating just this side of too fast.

Peter’s fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging as he nips at Tony’s lower lip, smirking when Tony gasps into his mouth and arches his neck, begging for more with every inch of his body.

His head gets rolled to the side and Peter nips and kisses his way down Tony’s throat, sucking a dark mark above his collar where he won’t be able to hide it and the idea of everyone seeing it sends a shiver over him, lips parting as he moans.

“You’re so beautiful Tony, I can’t believe I get to touch you sometimes,” Peter whispers in his ear before kissing the soft sensitive skin behind it, sending heat and light and sensation bursting through him.

He can’t do anything but gasp and hang onto the backs of Peter’s thighs, lost in wave after wave of pleasure, Peter’s lips never far from his skin as he whispers soft, sensuous words to him.

“I think about you all the time; how you sound when you come, the blush on your cheeks when I say something dirty, how incredibly smart and kind you are and how much you deserve to be taken care of.”

Tony shivers as Peter’s lips slide down his throat, tongue flicking into the hollow at the base; “You taste so good Tony, I just wanna kiss you all over.”

He nods loosely, that sounds _perfect_ , and he must make some needy noise because Peter smirks against his skin and pulls back slightly, fingers working his tie off before he unbuttons his shirt and pushes it off.

Peter hesitates and then crouches so they’re eye to eye, one hand braced at the nape of his neck while the other covers the faint glow from the arc reactor under his tank top. He’s breathing unsteadily and the affection and concern in Peter’s eyes doesn’t really help; he feels...destabilized.

“Do you want to leave it on?” Peter asks softly, tapping his fingers against the reactor, “I won’t mind, I promise. Whatever you need,” he assures Tony and Tony has to look away, bite his lip, because just that is enough to make it hard to swallow, eyes burning suddenly.

Peter makes a soft noise and presses his face against Tony’s neck, slips his fingers up his chest so they brush gently against the skin of his collarbones and Tony shudders, aching with need and more emotion than he knows how to handle.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Peter whispers, lips pressing to the underside of Tony’s jaw, “We don’t have to do anything, I promise.”

Tony half chokes on his laugh, turning back to Peter with tears in his eyes and smiles, throat thick as he lifts a hand to Peter’s cheek. _Fuck_ he loves him.

“I—” he has to clear his throat and try again.

“I want to, I want _you_ ,” he assures Peter, heart lurching when Peter leans into his hand, eyes hooded and warm. “I know it’s not,” he swallows hard and waves a hand toward the reactor, “attractive, but, I want to be with you, and I don’t want anything between us,” he admits in a whispery voice.

Peter’s brows rise and he smirks faintly, leans in to kiss him, words soft against his lips, “Does that mean I can take it off?”

Tony nods fervently and a moment later Peter is tugging at the cotton material, pulling it over his head slowly and tossing it aside. His shoes and socks and trousers follow quickly until he’s left in just his briefs, tented and damp from how he’s been hard for most of the night.

Peter pushes him back till he’s spread out on his oversized bed, then stands back and stares at him, hungry and covetous. Tony watches as the younger man shoves his trousers down and kicks them aside, the fabric of his briefs strained by his erection and Tony swallows hard, already imagining what it looks like, will feel like in his palm, on his tongue, _inside him_.

He can’t bite back the whimper at that and rolls his hips, desperate for friction, and that seems to be the breaking point for Peter because suddenly he’s straddling Tony and leaning down to kiss him. Tony groans and grabs his hips, grounding himself with touch as Peter nudges his chin with his nose and tilts his head back so he can leave bruising kisses down the column of his throat.

Tony’s distantly aware of the way he’s moaning, soft and desperate, half choked noises because he can barely breathe, entirely consumed by the feel of Peter on him.

Peter takes his time, sucking marks onto his skin before sliding back up to kiss him, slow and sweet like honey on his lips before he’s gone again, teeth sharp on his skin a hot aching contrast that leaves him off balance and shaky.

Lips press down the center of his chest and he gasps, props himself up to see Peter kissing his scars, tongue tracing them and he shudders because no one, _no one_ , has touched him like this. He’s avoided it, hidden them away because he knows they’ll either be a source of disgust or unseemly fascination, but Peter, Peter looks up at him and _smiles._

“Beautiful,” he breathes, pressing his lips to the reactor and Tony’s breath hitches when he does it again. Christ, this kid is going to kill him. “Every inch of you is beautiful,” Peter murmurs, “you’re so strong, and kind and beautiful.”

Tony chokes up and Peter smiles a little sadly, “I’m so sorry someone hurt you like this Tony, I wish I could make it better, make it not hurt,” he whispers, pressing another kiss to the scarring and Tony can’t repress the whine in the back of his throat. It’s nearly too much, too overwhelming, but Peter lays his palm over his chest and he takes a slow breath and it’s _better_.

Slim fingers reach out to trace his cheek and Peter smiles so sweetly it makes his heart lurch painfully behind his ribs, breathless and too emotional he tangles his fingers in the chain holding Peter’s dog tags and tugs him up for a bruising kiss.

Peter slows the kiss, winds it down with sweetness and gentle touches, presses his forehead to Tony’s as they breathe unsteadily, smiles on lips and Tony can’t help the laugh that escapes him, because everything about this is perfect and isn’t that a kick in the head.

Eventually Peter slips away, mouthing along Tony’s throat and chest, lingering on his nipples for a few minutes, heat and need building in his blood like glowing embers slowly catching fire. Teeth nip at his hipbone and he hisses, arches into Peter’s mouth, a soft desperate plea leaving his lips.

He can see Peter smirking when he looks down, watches as the younger man nudges his thighs apart before sliding between them. Peter tugs off his briefs and he hisses at the cool air against his hot, aching cock. His amber eyes are hooded as he turns his chin and bites the soft sensitive skin of Tony’s thigh, just at the junction of his hip.

It rattles through him and when Peter sucks the skin between his teeth and worries a bruise into his skin, he can’t help the high pitched sound that escapes him. Desire runs unchecked through him, and his chest hurts a little from how hard his heart is beating.

Distantly he wonders if he’s going to have a heart attack and then decides if this is how he goes, he doesn’t actually care all that much.

Peter winks at him and licks up the underside of his cock and that’s when Tony really loses it. He gasps and arches into the sensation, fingers white where he’s digging into the sheets.

_Please,_ he begs, _Peter please, want your mouth, please!_

Peter hums against his balls and Tony honest to god _whines_ , covering his face with one hand as he shakes, desperate for more.

“You make such pretty sounds babe, c’mon, let me hear them,” Peter encourages and then his mouth closes over Tony’s cock and everything sort of goes fuzzy, like a broken TV.

He knows he’s saying things, thinks vaguely that he should shut up, but he can’t because Peter is doing this _thing_ with his tongue and Tony shakes and moans, hips jolting as Peter hums and then opens wider and takes him deep into his throat.

Tony whimpers and gasps, hand reaching down to fist those soft curls, eyes barely slits as he trembles and watches Peter suck him. “Oh fuck, Peter, _god_ that’s amazing!”

Slim fingers curl around his balls, pulling them down tight as he shakes and moans, and then Peter pulls off and he groans at the loss, hips jolting up to chase the sensation.

“Lube?” Peter asks, placing soft kisses to his hip and thigh and he gives an uncoordinated wave towards the bedside table. When Peter disappears from the bed he closes his eyes and tries to catch his breath, a little overwhelmed.

Sudden weight on his hips has his eyes popping open to find Peter straddling him, a soft concerned smile on his face. His fingers trace Tony’s cheek and he pushes his thumb against Tony’s lips, caresses them as he stares down at Tony.

“Are you okay?” he asks, “we can stop or do something different,” he offers softly and the concern in his eyes makes Tony choke up, drag a hand through Peter’s hair and pull him down for a kiss that’s just shy of desperate.

“I’m good. I have you,” he whispers against Peter’s lips, “I’m good.”

Peter smiles and kisses him again, “Good.” He hesitates a moment and then rolls his hips down so their cocks slide together and Tony gasps, arches into it with a soft noise. “Do you want—”

“Want you inside me,” Tony interrupts, hands on Peter’s hips, grinding his up again.

Peter inhales and Tony watches his lashes flutter for a moment before he nods and leans in for another kiss, “Yea, okay, that’s, that sounds good,” he agrees breathlessly.

They kiss until Peter pulls away with a soft sound of regret, but he makes up for it entirely by slicking his fingers and rubbing over Tony’s hole, cheek pressed to Tony’s thigh so he can watch Tony’s face and it’s a little— _a lot_ —intense.

Tony sucks in a breath—it’s been….he thinks for a moment and swallows hard because it’s been since Tiberius since someone did this for him. The few men he’d been with after Iraq had been on the receiving end for this—and it’s not lost on him the significance of that choice.

Peter watches him as he adds another finger, spreads them wide and then sets to curling them deep, scraping just over his prostate and he keens, vision going white. He barely notices when Peter adds a third finger, he’s gasping and shaking, lungs burning in his chest and then Peter is hovering above him, lips against his cheek and temple, worry in his brow.

“Babe, slow down, breathe,” Peter orders and _what?_ He _was_ breathing, wasn’t he? But his lungs hurt and Peter cups his cheek, eyes wide and dark as he tells Tony to breathe again, slow and steady and it takes a few minutes, but his lungs finally stop hurting and his head is a little clearer.

Peter smiles faintly and brushes his thumb over Tony’s cheekbone, “Glad to have you back. JARVIS said your reduced lung capacity was stressed by arousal. You were taking too many short shallow breaths, but you should be okay now,” he murmurs and Tony burns with embarrassment, throws his arm over his face and groans.

“I’m sorry, Christ, Peter, you should be with someone who isn’t broken and old and useless,” he whispers hoarsely, throat working around the tears that have suddenly decided to choke him.

“What? Hey, no, Tony,” Peter murmurs pleadingly, tugging his arm down so they can see each other and his stomach lurches at the concern on Peter’s face. “Tony, you aren’t broken. You are beautiful and kind and sweet and yea, okay you’re a little older than me, but I like it, I like _you_ ,” he murmurs urgently.

“I like the greys in your hair and the lines around your eyes and the way your cheek dimples when you smile—yea like that!” he says with a grin, poking a finger into Tony’s cheek, “and you aren’t useless. You are the furthest thing from that babe. And it doesn’t matter how slow we have to go, or if we have to take breaks, because I want this, I want you, and as long as you do too, we’ll make it work,” he promises earnestly and Tony curses himself for the tears that burn in his eyes.

This kid, he’s, _god_ , he’s feeling things he’s never felt before, and it scares the shit out of him. He leans up for a kiss and nods, “Yea, okay, slow is good,” he agrees.

Peter hums happily and kisses him some more till his cock starts to harden from where it had fallen from attention when his lungs had protested so vociferously and Peter wiggles against it with a little grin and then slips away to swallow it down and suck, sending heat lighting up his spine.

He feels Peter’s fingers slip back into him and sighs happily, thighs spreading easily, head going light as Peter works him open, still sucking gently at the head of his cock. When he’s begging again, Peter pulls off his cock with a wet pop and reaches for the condom he’d set aside.

Tony watches as he rolls it on, shoulders shuddering at the friction, hand stroking his length a few times to spread the lube before he grins at Tony, “Slide back a little,” he urges, following Tony up the bed before he braces his hands by Tony’s head and leans in for a kiss.

He keeps kissing Tony as he hitches one of his thighs around his waist, a hand holding it firmly while the other does something between them and then Tony’s gasping as the blunt head of his cock presses forward. With a shaky exhale he relaxes into the sensation and whines when Peter slides in, the thick length of him spreading Tony wide.

He watches Peter’s face as he sinks deeper, a stunned little gasp coming from between wet, red lips as he settles all the way in.

“Fuck Tony, my god, so good,” Peter gasps, peppering kisses to his cheeks and brow and lips, “you’re so sweet, god, you’re amazing.”

Peter kisses him and rolls his hips, sliding almost all the way out before pushing back in and the long slow slide of it is enough to have him gasping in shock. Peter keeps up that slow steady rhythm, murmuring praise as Tony lifts his hips and pushes back against it, low moans knocked out of him with each thrust.

“So tight, _god_ Tony, feels so good,” Peter gasps, fingers tangling in Tony’s hair, tilting his head back so he can kiss him and leave more marks on his throat.

Tony chases his lips and moans at a particularly hard thrust, fingers shaking where he grabs Peter’s waist and holds tight. “Ngh...need more, harder, please,” he gasps, dizzying lights bursting behind his lids as Peter complies and fucks him harder.

Peter presses his face to Tony’s throat and groans as he thrusts harder, a half sobbing sound echoing in Tony’s ear. “Oh my god, Tony, wanna...wanna cum inside you,” he pants, “wanna feel you.” A breathless, wet kiss presses to his throat and Peter lifts up to meet his gaze, “You feel so amazing, so good, so good,” he gasps.

Tony rolls his hips harder in response and struggles to form words, lips numb and shaky as he brushes weak fingers over Peter’s hair. “N-next time, wanna feel you too,” he replies, voice throaty and low. He tenses as Peter groans and thrusts harder, the angle changing so his cock pounds into Tony’s prostate and a jagged whimper rips from his throat.

A hand closes around his cock and Peter gasps in his ear, “C’mon Tony, come for me sweetheart, please, let me see you cum,” and he cries out, high and ragged, tears rolling back into his sweaty hair as each thrust into him jolts his body with electricity, his balls painfully high and tight and then Peter whispers “So beautiful, you’re so beautiful for me Tony, c’mon sweetheart,” and he can’t stop the pained cry that bursts forth as he cums.

His vision whites out and sound disappears but he can feel his throat vibrate so he must be making noise, but all he can do is _feel_ and it’s like he’s being turned inside out by pleasure. He misses it when Peter cums too, sound and sight coming back slowly and by then Peter is pressed against him, hot and slick and gasping, hips rolling minutely as he moans Tony’s name in his ear.

His arms feel like they weigh a ton, but he snakes them around Peter’s narrow hips, turning his face so he can press it into Peter’s hair, inhaling the scent of sweat and sex and cologne. He feels Peter trembling against him and exhales unsteadily as he softens and slips out of Tony, both men sharing a shudder at the loss.

It’s quiet, but for their rasping breaths and he can feel Peter going limp on him so he rolls and gives him a soft smile, fingers trailing on his skin as he pulls the condom off and tosses it in the trash in the bathroom.

He wets a rag and splashes water on his face, hands braced against the counter for a moment before he turns and heads back out, pausing at the foot of the bed to smile affectionately at the sight before him. Peter is sprawled across his bed, breathing slow and steady in the moonlight, brow unlined as he sleeps.

Tony is gentle as he wipes him off, tugs the sheets up over them and smiles in surprise when Peter huffs and rolls toward him, one slim thigh hitching over Tony’s hip. Peter presses his palm flat against the reactor and sighs, nuzzles into Tony’s throat and something in his chest hitches.

He presses his lips to Peter’s hair and inhales, closing his eyes as exhaustion reaches for him.

* * *

_Tony sniffles and wipes his face on his jacket, wincing as his nose throbs and his eye aches. Jarvis glances back at him through the rear view mirror, “Is it bleeding again?” he asks softly, sighing when Tony nods and presses the hankie the older man had given him back to his nose._

_“We’ll take a look when we arrive, almost there.”_

_Tony doesn’t respond because what can he say? That the kids at his school hate him? That he doesn’t have a single friend? That all he wants is to have someone, just one person, think he’s worth the time it would take to care._

_When they arrive home Jarvis lays a steadying hand on his shoulder and guides him to the kitchen, helps him up onto the counter and then with gentle hands, cleans the bloody nose he’s been given. When he’s done Jarvis ruffles his hair and hands him a cookie and Tony manages a faint smile in thanks, pauses before he leaves and runs back to hug the older man as tight as he can._

_Jarvis makes a soft surprised noise and then smiles, cups the back of Tony’s head and murmurs very softly, “You are a very dear boy Tony, and I am so very proud of you.”_

_Tears burn in his eyes and he nods, unable to speak past the knot in his throat but when he pulls away he manages a shaky smile that Jarvis returns, just as unsteadily._

_He hurries out into the backyard where his mother is kneeling beside her flowerbed, a wide brimmed hat protecting her face from the sun, and at his approach she half turns, smiling so bright he thinks for a giddy moment that it’s brighter than the sun._

_“mio cuore,” she says, shifting to open her arms to him. He goes gladly, careful not to rest his weight on her rounded belly, tucking his face into her neck and breathing in the familiar scent of roses._

_She holds him like that for a long time, fingers stroking his hair as she hums a lullaby, the sun warm on his shoulders. Eventually though, she pushes him back and studies his face, frowning and tracing the bruises._

_“Who did this?” she asks softly, and he doesn’t lie, not to_ **_her_ ** _, so he swallows and tells her the whole story._

_A son of one of his father’s rivals took issue with something he said and decided to teach him a lesson, aided by three friends. Outnumbered, Tony received a bloody nose, a black eye and a bruised rib for his smart mouth._

_His mother looks troubled at that, lips pressing together before she pulls her gloves off and gives him a determined smile, “Well, I’d say you earned some ice cream,” she says brightly and before he knows it he’s buckled into the Buick beside her, grinning as jazz blares from the radio and a warm wind whips through the open windows._

_His mother never sees it coming, and when the produce truck slams into them, it’s a cacophony of sound and pain and when he opens his eyes and peers through the blood dripping down his face, he sees his mother, pale and very still, a crimson pool forming between her legs._

_He holds Jarvis’s hand while they wait at the hospital for his father, his mother resting in her room and all he wants is to see her, to see if his little brother is okay, but they won’t let him without his father and Jarvis looks very pale, pale and scared._

_His father storms past them and into the room and the sound he hears moments later scares him so badly he trembles and leans harder into Jarvis’s side. (He finds out later it was his mother, screaming in agony.)_

_The door is flung open and his father storms out, grabs his arm and drags him into the room where his mother is sobbing, holding onto a small, still bundle._

_His father shoves him toward the bed, “Look! Look what you did Anthony! Your weakness killed your brother!”_

_He can see now, that the bundle is a baby, so small, and pale, like a doll. His fingers tremble and he reaches out to touch its cheek when his father slaps his hand away, “Don’t you dare!” he growls, and then Tony’s head whips to the side, pain following closely behind the blow._

_Fingers close hard around his neck and he’s bodily thrown from the room and Howard (this is the moment he stops being_ **_father_ ** _and becomes_ **_Howard_ ** _) glowers at him, “You stole my son,” he hisses, “You destroyed my legacy and now all I’m left with is a useless,_ **_weak_ ** _little faggot!”_

_The words don’t hurt nearly as bad the blow, not till later anyway, and as his father strikes him he cries and curls in on himself, hears the distant shouts and then someone lifts him and carries him away and a soft, British voice whispers in his ear, “He doesn’t deserve you Tony, he never did.”_

* * *

Peter wakes with a start, glancing around in confusion before he realizes where he is; Tony’s bed, except he’s alone and he could have sworn he remembered Tony getting into bed before he really fell asleep.

Hurrying from the bed, he tugs on his briefs and grabs a shirt from the floor, not bothering to identify whose it is until he’s halfway out the door and JARVIS speaks.

“Mr. Parker, if I may, Sir is in his workshop.”

Peter pauses and then heads for the elevator. “Take me to him JARVIS?” he asks tiredly, leaning back against the wall of the elevator and closing his eyes. When the downward motion stops and the doors open, he steps out and stares for a moment, a grin slowly forming on his lips.

The suit is complete.

He watches Tony make slow circles around the suit, going through what seems like a pre-flight checklist with JARVIS. The third time he makes a pass, he finally notices Peter, eyes lighting up and he’s across the room before he realizes he’s moving.

Tony opens his arms and Peter curls into him, smiling when Tony’s lips press to his temple. “Are you wearing my shirt?” he asks softly and Peter pulls back, checks and laughs, because yea, apparently he is. “Looks good on you,” Tony murmurs, lifting his chin for a kiss that’s sweet and slow and leaves him breathing just a little unevenly.

“I woke up and you were gone,” he replies, turning in Tony’s embrace to study the armor. “Had an idea?” he asks over his shoulder.

Tony shakes his head and wraps his arms around Peter’s waist, pulling him flush against his chest and resting his chin on his shoulder. “Nightmare. Couldn’t sleep so I came down to see if the data download was complete. It’s all done,” he murmurs in Peter’s ear.

Peter half twists to look up at him in surprise, “Really? Wow...what now?” he asks, genuinely curious. He wonders if it flies—Tony has shown him the schematics and he knew it was supposed to, but he’d yet to see it tested.

“Now I take it for a test flight,” Tony tells him with a grin.

“Sir, there are still terabytes of data to download before the suit is ready for flight,” JARVIS interrupts.

Tony rolls his eyes and pulls away from Peter, taps a few things into a command box on the holoscreen, grinning as the suit opens; ready and waiting for him to step inside.

“Sometimes you gotta fly before you walk buddy,” he murmurs, rubbing his hands together as he steps into the suit.

Peter watches, equally fascinated and worried as the suit forms around him. He steps forward and lays a hand on Tony’s chest, just over the reactor and the suit stops at Tony’s waist while the older man stares down at him, brow lifted in question.

His hands shake as he lifts his dog tags from around his neck and Tony’s eyes widen as he drapes them around his neck, hands resting on Tony’s chest as he stares up into his coffee gaze.

“You sure?” Tony asks, voice hoarse and low, and if Peter’s not mistaken his eyes are glistening too.

Nodding, he smiles weakly, lips trembling, “So I’m always with you, even if we’re apart,” he whispers, words throaty and a little thick from the emotion clogging his throat.

He’s momentarily startled by the gauntleted hand that cups his neck, but then Tony is leaning down to kiss him and he clings to the man inside the suit, heart racing. Tony’s nose nudges his and his lips quiver against Peter’s in a trembling kiss before he pulls back to smile down at him, tears in his eyes and the gauntlet pressed to his cheek.

“Okay babe, I’ll be back soon,” he promises and when Peter steps back, the suit finishes closing and the last thing he sees before the faceplate snaps shut is Tony grinning at him, winking quickly before it closes.

The eyes light up and the reactor glows and behind them the window opens, cold air rushing in as Tony steps back, turns, and then shoots off into the night sky.

Peter rushes to the window and watches, heart clamoring as he watches the trail of light from the repulsors disappear—like a shooting star, he’s gone before Peter can make a wish.


	13. Mr. Blue Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony makes a breakthrough, a meeting is held, and the Avengers assemble.

_Tony has babbled the whole ride home about his parents and what to expect, knee bouncing nervously as Rhodey drives, listening to the insecurity and anxiety in his young friend’s voice grow as they get closer and closer to home._

_When he pulls up the long driveway and the mansion appears around the corner he resists the urge to whistle and make a wry comment, just glances over at Tony and smiles softly._

_There’s a tall, lean man standing in front of the house and when the car rolls to a stop Tony’s out like a shot to embrace him and Rhodey thinks this can’t possibly be Howard—so it must be the family butler he’s heard so much about._

_He’s a little slower out of the vehicle but as he comes around the hood he hears Tony telling Jarvis “and then I pointed out the error on the final and the professor tried to kick me out, but the Dean intervened and I’m pretty sure they’re updating the textbook too.”_

_Jarvis smiles benevolently and shakes his head, “As usual sir, you amaze me,” he says and Rhodey tries to smother his snort, but the older man hears it and smiles warmly at him. “I understand we have you to thank for keeping young Tony in line?” he says, stepping forward to extend his hand as Tony rolls his eyes and smirks._

_“Well, I certainly try,” Rhodey agrees, shaking the man’s hand before they’re ushered in the house. He and Tony settle in and by the time dinner is ready he’s gotten a tour of the house and Tony’s lab._

_He can see that with every step they take closer to the dining room tension ratchets up Tony’s spine till he’s as stiff as a robot. Tony politely introduces him to his father and mother—the latter smiling at him with a glazed expression that looks empty and hollow._

_“So, James, it’s my understanding you’re in the Air Force, is that correct?”_

_He nods politely at Howard, “Yes sir, two years now.”_

_Howard nods and lifts his glass, “I knew a lot of good men in the war, of course that was before your time, but you seem like an admirable young man.”_

_Tony snorts beside him, drawing Howard’s gaze and Rhodey watches as the older man’s gaze narrows with something that looks like disgust. “Perhaps you can teach my son what respect means, he’s sorely lacking in it.”_

_Glancing sideways he frowns at Tony, watching as his friend takes a large sip of wine but remains silent._

_“Your son is very respectful sir. His professors enjoy having him in class and he’s the smartest person at MIT—I’d be doing a lot worse without his help,” he says with a wry smile._

_Howard sighs, “Well we certainly donate enough money to keep him there.” He drains his glass and holds it out for Jarvis to refill, the gesture careless and habitual and something about it turns Rhodey’s stomach._

_Howard turns assessing eyes on him, “Tell me James, how does the military deal with homosexuals?” he asks, eyes calculating and sharp._

_He hesitates a moment and swallows hard, “As long as no one is openly gay, they mostly leave well enough alone.”_

_Howard nods and sips his drink, “Well perhaps some time in the military would straighten out my faggot of a son,” he says casually, the words biting and harsh, “Make him into a man instead of a pansy.”_

_Tony flinches beside him and Rhodey sets down his fork, anger swelling within him, “I doubt that sir, considering Tony is already a man—a kind, smart, generous man. He has far greater things to achieve than a military ranking. I’ll also ask you not to speak about my friend like that, but since I know your track record with treating your son decently, I’ll just say this: if I hear from Tony that you’ve been cruel or laid a hand on him, I’ll make sure you never get another military contract again.”_

_Howard stares at him wide eyed and after a moment scoffs, tosses down his whiskey and pushes away from the table. When the door slams Maria flinches but shoots them a brilliantly fake smile, “Dessert?”_

_That night Tony slides into bed beside him and they lay side by side, staring up at the ceiling._

_“You didn’t have to do that.”_

_He rolls his head and smiles at Tony, “I really did.”_

_“He’ll hate you now.”_

_“Guess he’ll just have to live with that.”_

_Tony turns to face him and smiles softly, “Love you honey bear.”_

_He grins back, “Go to sleep Tony.”_

_He stays awake for a long time, watching his best friend sleep, wishing he could do more, wishing that things were different._

_He had no idea that soon, they would be._

* * *

Rhodey taps his fingers nervously against the table, body tense as he waits for the results from his latest blood test with Tony to return. Tony paces beside him, a bundle of nerves if he’s ever seen one, and he smiles when he sees Tony’s fingers toying with a chain around his neck that he knows holds Peter Parker’s dog tags.

Tony had hedged around about the new jewelry for about thirty seconds before pulling it out and showing him, eyes wide and hopeful as he asked Rhodey what he thought it meant that Peter had given them to him.

The look on his face when he’d told Tony he thought it was likely because Peter loved him had been astonishing; confusion, hope, and euphoria tangled with low self esteem and self worth until Rhodey had pointed out that he’d done the same thing for Carol because he loved her.

Watching Tony touch them as he worked felt a little like watching his best friend leap from a cliff and learn to fly—terrifying and incredible all at the same time.

Tony had warned him not to give Peter a shovel talk and he’d agreed ruefully, but secretly thought that this directive would have been better aimed at Pepper; he already knew Peter and had seen long before these two idiots were together that they cared deeply about one another.

Smiling faintly, he leans back and watches Tony work, trying not to linger on the reason why this is all necessary.

They’ve got a week till his physical and Tony hasn’t found a way to cure AIDS—which is a ridiculous statement because no one is even _close_ to a cure, let alone a functional treatment, but Rhodey has faith in Tony. It’s steady and sure and if anyone ever asked what he believes in, he’d answer _Tony Stark._

So maybe they don’t have a cure yet, but Tony had summoned him here with a promise that he’d developed something that could mask the disease long enough to get him through his physical, he just needed to test it.

A steady beeping alerts them to the fact that the test is done and he waits, arms crossed over his chest and thumb in his teeth, for the results.

Tony has JARVIS throw them up in a hologram and studies it for a long time, not saying anything as he plays with the image, twisting and bending it until Rhodey feels like the last of his nerves are being sawed through with a rusty knife.

Nervously he clears his throat and smiles weakly when Tony spins and stares at him. Shit, he can’t tell what that look means…

And then Tony grins and closes the distance and his arms are around him and he’s crying without meaning to because even if this isn’t a cure or a treatment, it’s going to buy him time.

“God Tony, thank you, thank you,” he whispers hoarsely, fine tremors running over him as he tries desperately to collect himself.

“I’m sorry it’s not more,” Tony murmurs, “We’re working on this day and night I swear,” he says, pulling back to stare intently into Rhodey’s eyes and he can’t, well actually he _can_ believe it, because Tony has never been able to accept praise as genuine—that’s all Howard he thinks bitterly.

With a shaky smile and choked laugh he braces a hand against Tony’s shoulder, cupping the back of his neck with the other, “Tony, you’re saving my goddamn life here, I’ll take everything you can give me with a grateful heart. You’re my brother and I love you,” he says softly, smiling as Tony shuffles his feet and looks bashful.

He doesn’t hesitate to hug him, holding him close as he breathes slowly. Tony’s fingers curl into the back of his shirt and they stay that way till the doors behind them slide open and Obadiah strides in.

“James!” he crows, grinning wide and friendly as he crosses the room, hand extended. Rhodey steps away from Tony, placing himself between he and Obadiah, a polite smile painted on as he takes the older man’s hand. “Good to see you my boy!”

“You as well sir. How are things?” he asks politely, already acutely aware of how the company is doing.

“Oh you know, this new direction Tony’s got us headed in isn’t easy waters, but we’re sailing them as best we can,” he says with a smile. “But wait! Are you here as our liaison to the military?”

He looks excited and claps his hands, “Have you finally managed to get Tony to see the light? He’s a bright young man, but he’s forgotten how this company started!” with a smile that says _foolish Tony._

Rhodey’s spine stiffens and his smile slips away, “I think he knows how this company started and how it’s made a profit for decades, given that it was his weapons that were used to try and kill him,” he says stiffly, tacking on “sir” after a breath of silence in which Obadiah’s smile slips away and he stares at Rhodey intently; predator assessing if what is before him is prey.

There’s a long moment of silence before Obadiah laughs and claps a hand on Rhodey’s shoulder, “How right you are James! Well, hopefully you can talk some sense into him!”

Biting back a grimace, he shifts out from under Obadiah’s hand and turns to smile at Tony, “I gotta go—I’ll call you later?” he offers, smile widening when Tony nods and winks at him.

“See you later honey bear,” Tony calls, fluttering his fingers at Rhodey and Obadiah rolls his eyes.

“Later sweet cheeks,” he shoots back before the workshop doors start to close and behind him he hears Tony laugh, the sound of it bringing a genuine grin to his face.

He heads to one of the secure rooms and locks the door behind him, paces a few steps and then looks up at the ceiling. “JARVIS, call Peter Parker,” he orders, resolve settling like armor onto his shoulders.

* * *

Peter glances around the small living area of his apartment, a little dazed as the buzz of talk washes over him. When Rhodey had called and asked him to assemble his friends, he hadn’t expected it to be quite so quick to come together, but when he had explained in bare bones details _why_ they were coming together, everyone had gotten on board quickly.

Peggy, Steve and Bucky share the couch; Steve’s arm thrown protectively around her shoulder while Bucky glances every fifteen seconds down to the curve of her belly where their child is growing. MJ is sitting on the floor at the foot of the rocking chair, smiling faintly as Pepper twines her fingers through her hair and chats with Ned, an open, happy expression on her face.

Rhodey is next to him, watching the group critically before shooting Peter a grin, “I think we can pull this off,” he murmurs, and Peter nods, because, if there’s any group of people who will be capable of this crazy plan, it’s them.

Stepping forward into the fray, Rhodey clears his throat, the sound quieting the room faster than any shout for attention could have. With all eyes on him, Rhodey begins to explain why they’re all here.

“Most of you know Tony was captured in Iraq and held for ransom. What you don’t know is that the US government and Stark Industries refused to pay the ransom at the behest of Obadiah Stane.”

There’s a murmur of disbelief and Rhodey nods and continues, “Because of the quality of the video, Obadiah was concerned that the man in the video was not Tony and this was therefore an extortion effort.” He hesitates a moment and then glances at Peter before continuing, “As some of you might be aware, SI weapons fell into the hands of the group that took Tony. These weapons were used to commit heinous acts of terrorism, and we still don’t know how they got ahold of them. I’ve used my connections within the military to try and track shipments, unfortunately I’ve not been able to turn anything up. Agent Carter, it’s my understanding Peter asked you to look into this as well, can you report what you’ve found?”

There’s a moment where Peggy’s eyes widen and then her face settles into a calm mask with a nod. “Of course Colonel,” she agrees with a mild smile. “Peter asked me some months ago to look into Stark’s disappearance and how his weapons ended up being used by terrorists, and at the time I wasn’t able to produce any details. After numerous months and careful contact by one of my agents in Iraq, we’ve finally determined that someone within SI sold the weapons to the Ten Rings. They were unable to determine a name, but this person was called Ironmonger, with the implication that it is a man.”

The room falls silent at that and then Peter steps forward, clearing his throat as he turns his gaze to Pepper, “Miss Potts, we’re hoping that you’ll be able to help us with the plan we’ve devised,” he says carefully, nervous that she’ll refuse outright. He’s yet to spend any significant amount of time with her, and he’s fairly certain she doesn’t trust _or_ like him, but they have a greater chance of success with this plan if she agrees to help, so like it or not, he has to ask.

Pepper eyes him, studying his careful expression before she nods, “I’ll do anything for Tony. What do you need?” she replies, and he thinks he hears a challenge in those words— _I’ll do anything for Tony_ aka _will you?_

“We’d like to set up an interview with Obadiah. MJ will interview him and I’ll take photographs, and while we’re keeping him busy, we need you to get into the mainframe of SI and upload JARVIS. Once he’s in the system, we’ll be able to search internally for this Ironmonger person and use the information to expose them.”

Pepper’s lips purse together for a moment before she nods slowly, fingers curling against MJ’s neck. The younger woman loops her hand up to wrap her fingers around the slim wrist at her neck and glances up to smile at her softly, reassuringly. “Ma magnifique reine you can do anything,” she whispers, just barely loud enough for Peter to hear, and to his amazement, Pepper’s cheeks flush, eyes flickering down in what he suspects is pleased embarrassment.

When she finally looks back up, there’s a determined set to her jaw and she nods once, “I’m in.”

Peter and Rhodey share a grin and they set about laying out their plans for the group, distributing pagers so they can all be reached if necessary. It makes his heart a little lighter to think that his friends are all working together to help, to get a little vengeance on the men who hurt Tony, and as he lingers over that word, his smile grows.

He pulls Steve aside later and shares his idea, grinning when the taller man nods and quickly sketches out a drawing, a team picture with the words _The Avengers_ in curling letters just beneath it. Peter hangs it on his fridge and when those gathered see it, there are jokes that they need code names, and when he meets Bucky’s gaze, he already knows what his is going to be.

Steve adds to the drawing; SpiderMan, Winter Soldier, English, Captain America, The Red Queen, Mission Control, Miss Justice, and Iron Patriot.

They’re a team now, and even though they couldn’t stop what happened to Tony, they can damn sure avenge him.

* * *

Peter takes a seat across from Pepper, gut twisting nervously as she stares at him, a perfectly pleasant smile on her face that does little to reassure him. After the formation of the Avengers he’d asked if she would meet with him one on one, and a few days later had received a call from her assistant inviting him to lunch.

So here they are, salads and sodas and a bunch of tension that he’s not quite sure how to break when Pepper sighs and her expression drops into something tired and vaguely sad.

“What can I do for you Peter?” she asks softly, spearing a bite of salad with enough force to make him wince.

Swallowing hard, he nods and tries to smile as reassuringly as he can, but it doesn’t seem to have an effect if the look on her face is any indication. “Well, it just, it seems to me like you don’t like me and I’m not sure why. If it’s because of how I spoke to Tony before Iraq, believe me, I regret it,” he tells her, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck nervously.

“I’ve apologized to Tony as well,” he tells her, wishing that he could read her as well as he could Ned or Steve, but she’s had years of practice in the spotlight so he gets nothing more from her than a mild smile.

“I know you did Peter, I _am_ Tony’s friend,” she murmurs in reply, a cutting edge to the words that has him sliding back on his seat in surprise. “My concern is not how you’ve acted in the past, it’s how you’ll act in the future. Tony has been hurt before, by people he trusted and thought loved him and I won’t see it happen again.”

At this Peter does recoil, because _what?_ He’d never do anything to hurt Tony and the fact that Pepper thinks him capable of it leaves him stunned; hurt and angry and at a loss for words.

“I—I would never—”

“You don’t _know_ that. You don’t even know how badly you could hurt him Peter. He doesn’t trust easily and he’s already given you access to his home, his bed, his body—all things that have been taken advantage of before by someone he thought he could trust. It wouldn’t take much Peter—what are you going to do when people find out about you two? What happens when it’s in the papers and people won’t give you interviews because they hate Tony and they hate gay men even more? Who are you going to blame then?”

Pepper is staring at him hard, bright blue eyes like chips of ice and Peter can’t speak, can't even breathe through his shock. They lapse into silence while Pepper eats her salad calmly, gaze steady on him while the words sink in and he grows slowly angrier, the heat of it rising under his skin till he’s sure it’s burning on his cheeks.

Pushing aside his salad, he leans forward and makes sure he has her attention before speaking. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt because I know you love Tony but don’t you dare assume anything about me when you know next to nothing about who I am.” When she goes to interrupt he shakes his head, “You got to say your piece, I think it’s fair if I do too, don’t you?” he snaps and once she’s nodded slowly, he continues.

“You don’t know me Pepper and you have no idea how I feel about Tony. I would think it’s fairly obvious that I’m trying to help him by finding the person who tried to have him killed, but maybe I need to make myself clear. I love Tony. The fact that I hurt him breaks my heart, but he’s accepted my apology and I would never, _ever_ do anything to hurt him again.

When people do find out about us, I expect they’ll have some very ugly things to say about Tony and me—but you should know it’s nothing I’m unused to. I loved a man while I was in Vietnam and people said dirty, nasty, _evil_ things about us because of it, but that didn’t stop me from loving him and it’s not going to stop me from loving Tony.

I would never blame Tony for what other people think or say about us because we’re together. If anyone thinks less of me because I love Tony that’s their own shortcomings, not mine. I understand you love Tony too, that you’ve known him and loved him longer, but don’t assume something about me without a shred of evidence to back up that assumption.”

Silence once more fills the space between them and Pepper is the one who looks stunned now, eyes wide and bright while she stares at him. He watches her throat work a few times before she nods and glances away, nails tapping against her desk before she looks back up and there’s something different in her gaze now.

“Well. If that’s all, there are a few things we should talk about regarding this plan of yours,” she says with a smile that finally reaches her eyes and Peter feels the tension in his shoulders ease for the first time all day. He reaches for his fork and nods, offering her a small, genuine smile in return.

“Sounds good.”

* * *

“I...it went better than I expected.”

“I told you he’s a good guy sweetheart. He’d never do something to hurt Tony.”

“I know...but he’s not my friend. You’ve known him since high school but he’s only been in Tony’s life like this for a few months.”

MJ sighs and rolls over to watch as Pepper slides the zipper of her dress down, slowly exposing the lean lines of her spine and an appreciative flush rises in her skin.

She’d told Pepper that Peter was— _is_ —trustworthy, that she didn’t have anything to worry about with Tony, but the older woman hadn’t been convinced and the argument they’d subsequently had hadn’t been pleasant.

Pepper pulls on an old T-shirt MJ can identify as Tony’s—though there’s little jealousy in her about it, because it’s not Tony in Pepper’s bed, it’s MJ—and then sits on the bed beside her, one leg tucked under the other as she works her hair out of the severe French braid MJ had done for her this morning.

With a soft smile MJ wiggles her fingers in a beckoning gesture and sits up, sliding behind the other woman so her legs bracket her hips and she can start working her fingers through Pepper’s hair.

Pressing down in soft massaging motions, she carefully pulls each strand loose.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Peter saved my life?” she asks neutrally.

Pepper sighs and shakes her head minutely, chin dropping forward as MJ continues massaging her scalp.

“I hadn’t been feeling well for like two days but I refused to go to the doctor because I didn’t have good health insurance with work. So I was trying to get this story done and I was getting more and more nauseas, and Peter kept asking me if I wanted to go, kept trying to get me to leave, but I was too stubborn, I wanted to get the story.

Anyway, then I was throwing up and my stomach hurt and I was scared because I’d never felt pain like that before, and Peter found me a bucket from I don’t know where and drove me to the hospital and when they told me it was my appendix and I’d need surgery, he held my hand till it was time and was there when I woke up. He took care of me for a week while I recovered and never once complained.”

Pepper half twists at that, lips pursing as she slides a hand under MJ’s shirt to run her fingers over the scar that puckers her abdomen. She’s seen it before when MJ was undressed, but had never asked what it was or where it came from.

MJ smiles at her softly, fingers twining together before she lifts them and brushes her lips against Pepper’s knuckles. “I know how much you care about Tony, but if you’re still worried about Peter, you should talk to Peggy, or Bucky and ask them about all the times he saved their lives in Vietnam. If Peter loves you, he has your back, one hundred percent, no questions asked, and it sounds like he loves Tony, so maybe you should give him a chance.”

Pepper smiles softly and leans in to kiss her, “I believe you. And I promise I’ll give him a chance,” she murmurs before twisting and pinning MJ to the bed with a wry smirk, “But for now, can we stop talking about Peter and Tony?”

MJ grins and twines her legs around Pepper’s waist, arching her hips invitingly, “What did you have in mind?” she asks, sighing in pleasure when a hand skates its way up her thigh and under the hem of her tshirt, teasing along the edge of her underwear.

Smirking, MJ turns her face for a kiss, “I like the way you think,” she whispers, and that’s the last coherent thing she’s able to say for _quite_ some time. 

* * *

“James?”

He looks up and feels a knot of something loosen in his chest at the sight of the woman before him. Half rising out of his chair he opens his arms and sighs in relief when she steps forward and winds her arms around his waist.

“I’m so sorry James, I didn’t know, I didn’t know I swear,” she whispers, and he can hear the tears in her voice.

“I don’t blame you Carol, I promise,” he replies, and he’s relieved to find he means it. He presses his lips to her hair and pulls back to smile softly at her, “Why don’t you sit, I have some good news,” he explains, taking a seat but keeping ahold of one of her hands.

Carol bites her lip and leans toward him from where she’s seated, “I’m going to get kicked out of the military and you are too, what news do you have that could possibly make that better?”

Rhodey smiles slowly and for the first time since he found out he has AIDS felt hopeful. “Well, let me explain,” he murmurs, and by the time he finishes telling her everything, there are tears on both their cheeks.


	14. Somebody To Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter meets Tiberius Stone, makes his dislike known, and Tony hears those three little words that mean so much.

_Peter’s lungs burn as he sprints through the jungle, branches slapping at his face, missiles screaming overhead as explosions rock the air. Beside him Jacques, Dum Dum, Natasha and Peggy fumble and trip, avoiding mines, bullets and traps laid by the Viet Cong._

_They’re within a klick of the LZ when gunfire erupts around them and Peter slams to the ground, breathless for a moment before something starts burning him from the inside out in his shoulder. He opens his mouth to scream but can’t even draw air, shuddering on the muddy jungle floor, fingers clawing at his shoulder to try and get at whatever this is and then hands are under his arms, hauling him to his feet and a voice is in his ear, demanding that he run—_ **_Run mon amour!_ **

_He can barely breathe let alone run, but somehow he does. A strong arm around his waist keeps him upright and he can see Nat, Peggy and Dum Dum firing into the trees as they retreat, Dum Dum screaming into the radio for backup._

_They’re almost to the LZ when he feels Jacques stumble, the arm around his waist disappearing as the other man falls, a look of surprise on his face as he clutches at his gut, crimson stain spreading rapidly._

_Peter cries out and falls to his knees, hands pressing into the wound, babbling as Jacques struggles to breathe, wet bubbling gasps coming from between blood stained lips and Peter knows,_ **_knows_ ** _this is bad._

_Peggy and Dum Dum haul Jacques to his feet and a gun is shoved into his hands and he fires numbly into the trees, teeth bared in a grimace as his shoulder screams. He and Nat cover their retreat and in the distance he can hear the familiar thrum of the Huey’s rotors._

_They lift off and a nurse works frantically on Jacques, trying to stem the bleeding while Peter holds his hand and murmurs nonsense promises of love and a future together if he can just hold on,_ **_please hold on Jacques, please, for me_ ** _, but the light is fading in his eyes and Peter’s throat is growing thick and then Jacques pulls him down with a weak, bloody hand around his neck and kisses him and Peter can taste the blood on his lips and he sobs, pressing his forehead into his lovers’ and feels it moments later when the life drains out of him._

_He’s numb when they land, watches as Jacques is taken away to be cleaned and wrapped in a shroud before he’s laid in a pine coffin and mailed home. A hand at his shoulder guides him away and then someone is cleaning the blood from his hands and when he looks up he finds Natasha kneeling before him, coppery head bowed over his hands._

_When she looks up, her hands still and he can’t help the sob that rips out of his throat, and then she’s holding him, letting his tears fall onto her shoulder and he can’t breathe, he can’t—_

* * *

Tony wakes with a jolt, looking around in confusion, because he could have sworn Peter was in bed when he fell asleep. His suite is silent and empty though, and worry gnaws in his stomach when he can’t find the younger man in the kitchen or the living room, and he’s beginning to think maybe Peter just left, that he’d done or said something to finally fuck this up, and his stomach burns bitterly, fear coppery on his tongue.

“Sir, Mr. Parker may be found in his dark room,” JARVIS announces, sounding almost worried, so he wraps the edges of his sweater around him a little more firmly and takes the elevator down to his workshop.

The red light is on outside Peter’s dark room, answering the question of where he is, but not why he’s out of bed at 3:12am, so he knocks and leans against the doorframe, gives it a few moments before he knocks again, fingers toying with the chain around his neck.

When the door opens his stomach drops; Peter looks wan and exhausted, dark circles under his eyes make him look years older, and the haunted look in his gaze doesn’t help. Without thinking, he reaches out and cups his cheeks, breathing a sigh of relief when Peter doesn’t pull away, instead he leans into the touch and closes his eyes.

“Woke up and you were gone,” he tells Peter, “We have a bad habit of doing that, hmm?” he murmurs as teasingly as he can, hoping that Peter won’t notice his anxiety. The worst thoughts had gone through his head when he woke and Peter wasn’t there; _Peter didn’t love him, no one could love him, he’s fundamentally unlovable and why the hell is Peter even here?_

Peter’s eyes flutter open and he smiles tiredly, nods a little, “Sorry, I had a nightmare, I didn’t want to bother you, you just got back from Malibu. It’s fine,” he assures Tony, and Tony recognizes that tone—it’s _not_ fine, and Peter is desperately trying to hide that, even as he hopes Tony will ask, will try to make it better somehow. “Why don’t you go back to bed?” Peter suggests, eyes silently pleading with Tony not to go.

He’s not sure he knows how to make this better for Peter, but he knows how he feels after a nightmare so he ignores that request and pulls Peter closer, slipping a hand around his waist, fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt to brush against his skin while his other hand traces the fine line of his cheekbone.

Peter stares up at him wide eyed and clutching at his waist, fingers digging in and Tony sighs softly, leans in and kisses him, taking it as a victory when Peter melts into the embrace. When he’s kissed Peter into relaxing a touch, he pulls back and presses his forehead into Peter’s, peers down into his eyes as he asks, “Wanna tell me about it?”

He can see Peter swallow hard, eyes hooding as he lowers his gaze. The tension in his body returns and Tony worries he’s asked the wrong thing when Peter starts to speak.

“During the war, I had...I fell in love. His name was Jacques and he…” Peter’s voice cracks and he shudders in Tony’s grasp, “He died in my arms,” he whispers, breath hitching and Tony winces, pulls him a little closer, hoping he’s doing the right thing because so many times he’s gotten this wrong. He’d fucked it up with Pepper and countless others, and all he wants is to make Peter happy.

“I dreamt about him, about the day he died and then, t-then,” Peter stutters and his breath washes out hot against Tony’s wrist as Peter turns his face and presses against his hand with a low groan, “then it was you,” he reveals and the floor falls out from beneath Tony. “It was you with a bullet in your gut, bleeding out while I tried to save you, and there was no Huey, there was no one and everything was wrong and you died Tony, you died in my arms and I couldn’t do anything about it!”

He’s sobbing now, clinging to Tony’s shirt and pressing his face into Tony’s shoulder for which he’s immensely grateful because that means Peter can’t see the tears on his face, can’t see the devastation on his face as he holds Peter up even as he’s unsure of the integrity of his own legs.

His throat is too tight and he’s swallowing hard, trying to keep his tears under wraps, but Peter must sense it because he pulls back and lets out a low noise of distress, reaches up to wipe them away with shaking fingers as he apologizes, and Tony can’t take it so he pulls him close and kisses him, tears salty on his lips as Peter clings to him weakly.

They’re a mess when he finally stops kissing the younger man, and it’s all he can do to just press their foreheads together and just breathe.

“Wake me up next time,” he murmurs, hands tightening on Peter’s hips. “I...Maybe I can’t make it better, but I can listen,” he says softly, “and sometimes that helps.”

Peter nods and sniffles and Tony smiles weakly, closes his eyes and shifts so he can bury his nose in Peter’s hair and inhale the familiar scent of green apples and something that reminds him of caramel.

“Come back to bed?” he asks, twining their fingers together and opening his eyes so when he pulls back he can see Peter’s face. The younger man hesitates for a moment and glances back at the dark room, biting his lip. “Or I can work on the suit while you finish up,” he offers, because realistically he’s awake now and unlikely to go back to sleep anytime soon, so, why not?

Peter gives him an assessing look, “You didn’t get much rest, I don’t want to keep you up.”

“Trust me, I want to be where you are,” Tony tells him, “If you aren’t ready to go back to bed, I want to be here. If you want me here,” he amends, flushing when he realizes Peter might not actually want him around in the wake of everything.

“What? Of course I do Tony,” Peter exclaims softly, surprise coloring his expression, followed closely by confusion, “Why would you think I wouldn’t want you here?” he asks softly.

And for the life of him, Tony doesn’t know what to say. He’s silent for a long time as words jumble around in his head and then before he can really think them through, opens his mouth and spews them out.

“Because most people don’t want me around for much more than creating things for them? They don’t actually like me, they just need something from me,” and _shit_ , did he really just admit that? Based on the widening of Peter’s eyes, yea, he did.

Peter’s jaw firms and he grabs Tony’s shoulders and shakes him gently, “Listen to me Tony. I don’t want anything from you—I just want _you_. I don’t need you to make me anything, buy me things, take me to fancy places or events—none of that makes me happy. Just you.”

Tony’s mouth hangs half open in shock because well, there’s a very small group of people that like him for _him_ , and even those he’s wondered if they’d stick around if he lost all the money and fame. Would Pepper still be his friend if she didn’t have the job at his company? Would Rhodey be his friend if they had never met in MIT? Would these people like the man so many hated?

“You...want... _me_?” he hears himself asking, brow furrowed in confusion.

Peter half laughs and nods, a smile chasing away some of the shadows in his eyes, “Yea Tony, I want you.”

Tony can’t quite process it, but the crooked little smile on Peter’s face tells him everything he needs to know. He kisses Peter again and then tucks his face into his neck, inhaling the warm scent of his skin. Peter holds him, arms firmly around his waist until he pulls away and smiles hesitantly, “Will you show me how the suit works?” he asks nervously.

“Really?” he asks excitedly, grinning when Peter nods and laughs softly, “Yea Tony, I wanna see,” he replies and yea, Tony can get behind that idea. He grabs Peter’s hand and tows him across the workshop, babbling on about thrust and de-icing, titanium gold alloy for the next one, and then he’s stepping into the suit and turning to face Peter and he finds the younger man pointing his camera at him with this look of awe that takes his breath away.

He grins and then laughs when Peter takes more photos and then suddenly he has an armful of Peter, smiling as he kisses Tony, fingers toying with the edge of the faceplate as he peers up at Tony, lips pursed in a little smirk.

“How do you feel about suit sex?”

Tony throws his head back and laughs, unable to hide his grin when he kisses Peter again.

“Where have you been all my life kid?”

“Call me kid again and I won’t give you a blow job.”

“Fair enough.”

* * *

Peter tugs at the collar of his tux and grimaces, sipping on his water as Tony schmoozes with investors for the Maria Stark Charitable Foundation. When he’d told Jameson he’d be writing an article about the event and the charity at the invitation of Tony Stark he’d thought the man would burst a vein he was so excited.

“Peter Parker, isn’t it?”

He looks up in surprise at his name and smiles hesitantly at the tall blonde man looming over him. Offering his hand, he nods. “I’m sorry I don’t think we’ve met,” he murmurs as the man shakes his hand firmly.

“Tiberius Stone, and no, we haven’t,” he agrees with a winning smile, “But I’ve heard _so much_ about you from dear old Obie,” he says with a fond look, teeth perfectly white and straight in a way that reminds Peter uncomfortably of a shark.

“Obadiah?” he murmurs, “I didn’t realize you knew each other,” he replies.

“Oh, of course! I’ve known Obie and Tony for _ages_ ,” he gushes, “I knew Tony during his younger, wilder days,” he says with a conspiratorial wink. “We had some good times,” he laughs, smile amused but eyes cold and calculating as he stares at Peter.

Peter laughs along and nods, an ugly suspicion filling him. “You’re the CEO of Viastone, my apologies, it took me a moment to place your name,” he says with a self deprecating laugh as Tiberius preens. “Your company has done well this quarter,” he says mildly, watching as Tiberius smiles, pleased, and nods.

“Yes, well, Tony handed me the market really with that silly decision to leave weapons manufacturing behind,” he says with a solemn shake of his head, looking sorrowful in a way Peter knows he doesn’t mean.

Everything about the man has his teeth on edge; from the obviously fake self deprecation the man uses to gain praise to the way he flashes his Rolex at Peter and the too familiar way he lays a hand on Peter’s arm as they talk.

“Some people have said that his entry into clean energy and medical technology will do more to secure world peace and freedom than his weapons manufacturing ever did. What would you say to that?” he asks, words laced with a sharp edge. Tiberius studies him for a moment before a sly smile spreads on his face and Peter’s skin crawls.

“I’d say that’s liberal foolishness. It’s been America’s policy for generations to speak softly and carry a big stick—so what’s she to do when her greatest stick manufacturer leaves the game? Leave world peace and security to the likes of HammerTech?” he laughs wryly and shakes his head, “I don’t think so my boy. Trust me, Stark Industries will resume weapons manufacturing by the end of the year,” he says confidently and a shiver crawls over Peter’s spine.

“Why do you say that?” he asks, angling his chin to study the older man more intently.

Tiberius stares back at him for a moment before shrugging carelessly, “As I said, Tony and I have known each other for a very long time. There’s little I can’t convince him of,” he says blithely.

“Tiberius, I do hope you know Mr. Parker here is a reporter for the Bugle.”

Peter barely restrains himself from looking over his shoulder at Tony, allowing himself the smallest of smirks when the other man’s gaze flickers from Tony to Peter and back again, a calculating look in his icy gaze.

“Of course I know Tony! I at least am wise enough not to allow a reporter into my bed, but, I suppose if you didn’t learn your lesson after that little tarte from Vanity Fair…” Tiberius shakes his head and smiles knowingly, “You always did have problems with self control, though,” his gaze flickers over Peter, “I can see how you got distracted.”

Peter hears the indignant sound Tony makes and through a blaze of his own anger steps closer to Tiberius, chin tilted defiantly, “Was that an admission to homosexual behavior Mr. Stone?” he murmurs, smile sharp and dangerous. “It’s my understanding you and your wife have yet to have any children, would that be because you’re too busy fucking every rent boy you can afford? Do your investors know of your….proclivities?” he taunts, seething with rage.

Tiberius’s face drains of color and goodwill and then he’s stepping forward, teeth gritted in a rictus of a smile, “You should be very careful about what you say next _boy_. I’ll ruin you and that trashy little paper you write for,” he hisses.

Peter’s grin must take him by surprise because he actually rocks back a step, but Peter follows and claps his hand to Tiberius’s arm, squeezing till the man winces. “I don’t give a shit about my job or the Bugle _Tiberius_ , but there’s one thing you should know about me; while I was in Vietnam I learned from two of the best assassins in the world how to be silent when I’m hunting, and I can promise you that you’ll never hear me coming—I don’t hesitate when someone I love is threatened.”

He hears Tony inhale sharply and curses internally—that wasn’t at all how he wanted to say those words. Tiberius looks shaken though, so he steps back and smiles brightly, holds his hand out for Tony to take and laces their fingers together when the older man finally takes his hand.

“Have a good evening Mr. Stone and do be careful driving home, I’d hate to see your wife made a widow,” he says lowly before tugging on Tony’s hand and striding away.

He’s so angry he can barely see straight, just keeps walking till they’re in a secluded service hallway, and then stops and turns to stare at Tony. The older man looks stunned, brow furrowed as he studies Peter, lips parting like he wants to speak before closing again.

Tony runs a hand through his hair, then scrubs at his jaw, confusion on his face as he starts to pace. “Why…” he cuts himself off and shakes his head and Peter wants to say something, but he can tell Tony is having a hard time gathering his thoughts, so he stays quiet, gives him a moment to figure out what he wants to say.

“Why did you say those things to Tiberius?” Tony finally asks, stopping his pacing to stare at Peter.

“Because he was out of line and I figured it would make the news if I punched him,” he answers honestly. “And he’s a dick.”

At this Tony cracks a tiny smile and ducks his head, nodding minutely, “He is. He’s uh, he’s the first man I-uh,” he clears his throat and glances back up at Peter, as though he’s trying to determine what Peter thinks of this and then continues, “My father found out about us kissing and trading blow jobs when we were in boarding school together and sent me to another school after he broke my arm for being a faggot, and then when he died I sort of well, took up with...I mean it wasn’t good, what we had,” he admits.

He glances back up at Peter and shakes his head, “Tiberius liked to manipulate me, it amused him I think. He made me think he was the only person who could possibly love me, even while he told me that I wasn’t worthy of what he did give me. He pushed me into drugs and sex with people I didn’t know and I did it all because I thought it would make him happy, would make him love me, would keep him around, and then one day he told me he couldn’t possibly be with me because I was a disgusting whore who was only looking for a daddy figure to fuck him, and yea, that was it.”

Cold horror fills Peter and he lurches forward, “I’m going to kill him,” he says calmly, ice in his heart, moving to step past Tony but stopped by a hand on his arm and dark, desperate eyes.

“Don’t...he’s not worth it and I don’t want you wasting any more thought on him because I sure as shit don’t.”

They stare at each other for a long moment before Peter nods and the tension melts from Tony’s shoulders. “I’m sorry,” Peter breathes, stepping closer so he can grasp the lapels of Tony’s tux, angling his chin so he can press his lips to the underside of his jaw and hear the soft inhalation Tony makes when he bares his teeth and skates them along the line of his throat.

“I just have one question,” Tony whispers hoarsely, and Peter already knows what it is, but he nods anyway and feels it when Tony swallows hard, his lips pressed to the tense line of his throat. “You said you don’t hesitate when someone threatens the people you love, but, uh, you were talking about me, so…”

Peter pulls back and lifts a brow, “So?” he probes.

Tony flushes and glances away, “So do you love me?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper and laden with so much hope it’s heartbreaking.

Peter slides a hand up to Tony’s throat, presses under his chin with his thumb and raises his head so he can meet those beautiful dark eyes and smile. “I do. I love you so much it makes my hands shake when I see you because I want to grab you and kiss you so everyone can see, so they know that you’re mine and I’m yours.”

Tony inhales unsteadily, blinking rapidly and then his lips are crushing against Peter’s and his back hits the wall as Tony slides a thigh between his legs and rocks his hips forward. “God, Peter, I love you too,” he gasps, hands sliding down to grab Peter’s hips and grind them together.

Peter gasps as his blood heats, head spinning as blood rushes south, moaning when Tony kisses him hungrily. “Fuck me,” he demands against Tony’s lips, grinning when the older man moans and nods, grinding their hips together harder. When Tony makes to pull away he tugs on his jacket and shakes his head, kisses him filthily, rolling his hips, “Here, fuck me here,” he rasps.

Tony drops his head to Peter’s shoulder and groans appreciatively, “Oh my god,” he half laughs, “what about lube?” he asks and Peter grins because that means _yes_.

“Was thinking you could put that mouth to good use,” he pants, grinning as Tony groans and comes back up for a wet, filthy kiss, hips grinding together till he’s leaking in his trousers and gasping against Tony’s mouth. “Tony...please,” he whispers, a hint of a whine in his voice, and before he knows it he’s being spun and pushed against the wall.

There’s some minor fumbling with his belt and then his trousers and briefs are around his knees and Tony’s mouth is on him and his hand is wrapping around his cock and Peter has to shove a hand into his mouth to stifle his cries.

Sweat breaks out on his neck as Tony’s tongue flattens and presses against him, over and over again before it spears forward, pressing into him and he cries out, rocking back and then forward into the slow strokes on his cock and his head is so light he thinks he might pass out. His chest sobs as he pants and whines, arches back into Tony and then rocks forward, slowly losing his mind as Tony loosens him up.

“Please, Tony, want you in me,” he manages to gasp, whining at the loss of sensation when Tony stands, looks over his shoulder and moans at the sight of Tony—red lipped, glassy eyed with desire and utterly wrecked looking. “Tony,” he whispers and the other man makes a soft noise and hurries to kiss him, tongue tangling with his for a moment before he feels pressure at his hole and then “Oh!” he’s gasping and arching back as Tony presses into him.

Tony plasters against his back, lips open and wet against his throat as he rolls his hips, sliding in slowly, breaths loud and hot against his ear. “Fuck...my god Peter, I—” he gasps and Peter pushes back into him, taking him deeper so they both moan. Tony’s hands tighten on his hips and Peter does it again, gasping at the burn, whimpering at the need for more glowing like an ember in his gut.

“Harder Tony,” he demands, crying out when Tony complies, pulling back on his hips to sink deeper, one hand bracing on the wall near his head as he pounds into him, their shared moans echoing in the hallway. Peter arches back, head falling to Tony’s shoulder, gasping high and sharp as Tony manages to hit his prostate.

Lights fill his eyes and he slides a hand further up the wall to support himself, heart aching with painful sweetness when Tony shifts his hand to cover it and slide his fingers between Peter’s.

“Love you,” he gasps in Peter’s ear, “fuck...love you Peter.”

Angling his head, he hums in satisfaction when Tony’s lips meet his in a messy kiss, hips relentless against Peter’s. “Love you too,” he whispers, “feel so good Tony, fuck, fuck me _so good_ ,” he moans, gasping when Tony takes his words to heart and fucks him harder.

Burying his face in his other arm, he pants and moans heavily, barely aware of the sound of a door opening distantly. Tony shifts and starts pounding into his prostate and he cries out, keening Tony’s name over and over as distant footsteps approach and he lifts his gaze just in time to see Tiberius Stone stepping through the door, arm around his wife.

He’s not sure if Tony sees him, based on the low grunts of his name, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t, so he smirks and locks eyes with Tiberius, moaning Tony’s name loudly, enthusiastically, throwing his head back when Tony reaches around and strokes him off.

He comes with a shout and through hazy vision sees Tiberius ushering his wife back through the door with a backward glance that looks jealous and angry, and then everything blanks out as Tony continues to thrust into him and his cock is spurting against the concrete and then he hears Tony cry out and feels it a moment later when he spills deep inside him.

Tony collapses against him, still buried deep inside him as he pants against Peter’s neck, fingers laced together on the wall. Lips press against his neck and then Tony whispers in his ear, “Do you think he’ll think of us when he tries to fuck his wife tonight?” and Peter loses it, laughing so hard he’s breathless.

Turning his head for a kiss, he grins against Tony’s lips, “I think I don’t care. I’m more interested in taking you home and doing that again.”

Tony grins and squeezes his hip, “I like the way you think baby.”

They rearrange clothing with a modicum of groping and kissing, smiles plastered on their faces as they stumble out to the party, passing through quickly on the way to the valet where Happy is waiting with the car.

When they get home—and he’s not sure when he started thinking of Tony’s place as _home_ , but he does now—he makes them scrambled eggs and sits on the counter, legs spread while Tony stands between them, grinning and laughing as they share bites and he can’t remember a time before he was with Tony—before he was called baby( _sweetheart, honey, darling_ ), before Tony looked at him like he couldn’t quite believe he was real, before he was _happy_.

He takes Tony to bed, strips everything away between them and kisses every inch of his body before he seats himself on Tony’s cock and rides him, eyes locked together in a gaze that’s so intense it makes him shiver, calling his name desperately as he comes.

When they finally clean up and are tucked beneath the sheets it’s almost dawn—the sky turning a bruised purple in the distance as Tony falls asleep slowly beside him. He traces the lines of his face lightly, watching the strain in his face softening with each breath. He’s tired too, but he’s content to just lie here, listening to Tony snoring softly, heart aching in his chest with how much he loves this man.

What he’d said to Tiberius was true; he’d do whatever it took to keep Tony safe, because he wasn’t just the man he loved, he was his friend, his love, his family.

His everything.


	15. Breakfast in the Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter and Tony have a lazy morning, Tony meets Carol, and things fall apart

Tony lays still, watching Peter sleep, snoring softly and something warm curls into his chest, aching in a bittersweet way and he thinks _love, it’s love_. He doesn’t want to wake him yet, but he can’t help pressing a kiss to his cheek and he can feel it when Peter’s face shifts into a smile. Those lush lashes flutter and Peter smiles sleepily at him.

“Hi.”

Tony presses his lips against Peter’s, heedless of morning breath and murmurs _hi_ back, sighing softly when Peter shifts and nuzzles into his side, humming as he presses his face into Tony’s throat.

“What time is it?” he asks sleepily.

“Good Morning sirs, it is 12:29pm on Saturday March 12th. It is 58 degrees with a variable chance of rain. Would you like something to eat?”

There’s a breath of silence and then Peter laughs softly, “Thanks JARVIS,” he murmurs.

“You’re very welcome Sir. Shall I start the coffee?”

Peter hums happily at that and Tony smirks, rubbing his hand over his back and noses at his hair, “Sounds good J-man.” When Peter’s breathing grows regular again he nudges him softly, “Let me up sweetheart, I’ll get breakfast.”

Peter makes a soft noise of displeasure and holds onto him tighter, “Mmm, stay,” he protests and Tony chuckles and ruffles his hair gently.

“C’mon sweetheart, I’ll be right back,” he promises and laughs again when Peter loosens his grip enough that he can slide away. He’s greeted with a baleful look when he stands and he can’t help the laugh that bursts out—Peter looks like a cat, curled into the spot he’s left behind, chasing the warmth. Leaning down, he kisses him gently and smooths a hand over his hair before he slips away, still smiling as he walks into the kitchen and sets about making breakfast for them.

They’d gotten to sleep late after the party last night and he grins once more, thinking of the way Peter had defended him to Tiberius, shaking his head at the sheer audacity of the younger man. “Music J,” he says absentmindedly, smiling softly when Nat King Cole comes on. He’s puttering around, pouring juice, slicing up fruit and mixing pancake batter when Peter shuffles into the kitchen and slides his arms around Tony’s waist.

They rock together a moment, Peter’s face pressed between his shoulder blades and everything else fades away. When Peter releases him he doesn’t go far—hopping up on the counter, he takes the bowl of fruit and feeds it to Tony, stealing bites for himself while Tony chews and flips pancakes and he can’t remember a time that he’s been so happy and at ease.

After eating and a slow lazy fuck, they shower and go down to Tony’s workshop together, splitting apart so Peter can develop photos and work on a story for the paper about the charity event and Tony can work on the redesign of the suit.

Hours pass in companionable silence, the air filled with music that they both enjoy, and more than once he passes by Peter’s dark room to hear him singing along with the music almost absentmindedly.

When the updates to the suit are complete he has JARVIS begin creation and assembly; it should take a few days before it’s ready, so in the meantime he can work on the serum and the potential cure.

“Sir, Colonel Rhodes and Captain Danvers are here.”

Glancing up, he frowns, “Captain Danvers?”

“Captain Carol Susan Danvers. Designation: Air Force. Association: Lover.”

“Okay, that’s good J. Let them in.”

The doors to the workshop open and Ace Freely stops singing about New York and Rhodey steps forward, followed closely by a woman Tony assumes is Carol Danvers. She’s tall and whipcord lean, cheekbones high and jaw strong and there’s a challenge in her eyes that makes him understand why Rhodey fell for her.

He doesn’t miss how Rhodey slides a hand around her waist to rest low on her spine as he nudges her forward, smiling warmly at Tony.

“Hey Tones, thought I’d introduce you to Carol,” he says by way of explanation.

Tony lifts a brow but nods, smiling as he extends a hand to Carol, “Captain, it’s good to meet you, I’ve heard a lot”— _of good things_ is conspicuously absent and he can see the way her spine stiffens as she shakes his hand. Rhodey shoots him a warning look and he tilts his head to study them before sighing and turning to Rhodey, “So what, you’re together again?” he asks frankly.

“Yea Tony, we’re together. Do you have a problem with that?” Rhodey retorts sharply and he can hear the warning in Rhodey’s voice as his friend stares him down, eyes hard.

He turns instead to Carol and studies her, noting for the first time how she’s not just fit, she’s too thin and sweat beads on her brow and the makeup she wears isn’t enough to hide the dark circles beneath her eyes.

“You’re untreated right now, aren’t you?” he asks softly, sighing when she stares at him and then nods stiffly. Glancing to Rhodey he rubs a hand over his hair, “You want me to give her the same thing you’re on?” he guesses, “And something to mask the disease?”

Rhodey nods and reaches out, wraps his hand around Tony’s wrist, squeezes as his eyes soften, pleading silently. They stare at each other for a moment before he sighs and smiles ruefully, shaking his head, “Okay Captain, why don’t you take a seat over here and we’ll start with some blood?” he suggests, turning to smile at Carol.

She stares at him for a moment before nodding stiffly and heading for the chair he’d pointed out. Rhodey hangs back for a moment and grabs his shoulder, stepping closer with an intense look, “Thank you Tony, I owe you,” he murmurs softly and Tony just shakes his head because there’s no way Rhodey owes him anything.

He’d be dead multiple times over if it wasn’t for Rhodey, so no, Rhodey owes him nothing.

“C’mon honeybear, we’ve got work to do,” he says instead, throwing his arm around Rhodey’s shoulder as he guides him through the mess of his lab.

Rhodey gives him a relieved smile and laughs softly, “Sure thing peaches.”

* * *

_His mother’s hand is cool and strong around his, and when he looks up at her she smiles down at him, but he thinks that it doesn’t quite reach her eyes for some reason._

_It’s been like that since…_

_He swallows hard and holds on tighter, shoulders tense as they walk down the hall to his—Howard’s office. His mother chats politely with the receptionist and then they’re let into Howard’s office after the other woman knocks and opens the door for them._

_Howard looks up from his desk and the tiny guttering flame of hope Tony had allowed himself is snuffed out when Howard sighs heavily and shakes his head._

_“Whatever this is I don’t have time Maria,” he says dismissively and Tony can feel his mother stiffen beside him._

_There’s a moment of silence and then his mother smiles brightly and lifts the picnic basket she had packed before they left. “It’s just lunch dear, surely you have time to eat?”_

_Howard glances up and stares at her for a moment and then shakes his head, “I’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes, I can’t.” His gaze flickers to Tony for a moment before hardening and looking away, “Take the boy and go, I don’t have time to entertain you both.”_

**_The boy_ ** _—he’s stopped being Tony and become_ **_the boy_ ** _, nameless, unwanted._

_His mother flinches minutely and then nods, “Of course Howard, I should have checked with Bonnie on your schedule.” She releases Tony’s hand to step forward and kiss Howard’s cheek, smiling as she wipes away the lipstick left behind. “Don’t work too hard,” she admonishes and his fath—Howard just grunts and nods, already turning his attention back to the paperwork covering his desk._

_His mother smiles politely to Bonnie and keeps ahold of his hand as she leads him out to the car where Jarvis is waiting. There’s some quick debate before Jarvis drives them to the park and they go, the three of them, to sit by the pond and eat._

_He thinks he hears his name and glances back from where he’s feeding the ducks; his mother is lying in the grass with her eyes closed and a small content smile on her lips while Jarvis reads aloud from a book and for a moment, Tony can almost believe that this is real—that Jarvis is his father, that Tony and his mother are happy._

_He’s never wanted something so bad in his life._

* * *

There’s a knock at the door and Tony looks up from the spreadsheet Pepper had put in front of him three hours ago, grinning when he sees Peter leaning against the door frame, dark jeans clinging to his hips, trench coat pearled with rainwater and grin bright. Peter shoves a hand through his damp hair and lifts a brown paper bag, “Lunch,” he says by way of greeting, stepping away from the door and kicking it shut behind him.

Tony grins and leans up when Peter seats himself on his desk, sets the paper bag aside and cups Tony’s jaw so he can bend down and kiss him, lips curling up as Tony hums and drags his fingers through Peter’s hair in return. He’s grateful that his office isn’t all glass walls like Obie’s, because the way Peter is kissing him is really not safe for work, but that certainly won’t stop him from returning the embrace.

Eventually Peter pulls back, lips brushing his as he smiles and nudges his nose against Tony’s, “Hey,” he whispers, “Come take a break with me,” he murmurs, sliding Tony’s tie through his fingers and giving it a tug.

Tony can’t help the laugh that bubbles out, just nods and grins, lets Peter pull him up out of his chair and over to the small loveseat by the window. Peter gives him a shove and sits beside him, unpacks the lunch he’s brought from Delmonico’s, and proceeds to lift Tony’s feet into his lap. Tony watches, slightly stunned, as Peter unties his loafers, sets them on the floor and begins rubbing his arches.

Peter grins at his groan and works his thumbs harder into Tony’s feet, “Eat your lunch hon,” he murmurs and it takes Tony a moment before he can process that, but when he does he flushes a little at the pet name—Peter’s not as effusive with them as Tony is so every time he uses one it makes something flutter in his chest, and he thinks stupidly of butterflies and flowers and the cheesiest shit in the world, but he can’t deny how happy he is, how happy Peter makes him.

Around a bite of steak he grins at Peter, “What brought this on?” he asks, waving his fork at the food and his feet, groaning when Peter’s thumb digs in firmly.

Peter grins and leans forward as Tony offers him a bite, chewing for a moment before leaning in further and giving him a quick peck, “Because I love you,” he says simply, leaning back in his seat with a grin when Tony just stares. Lifting a brow, Peter studies him, smile fading a little, “Unless you don’t want me here?” he murmurs, fingers slowing.

“No, babe, no,” Tony hurries to reassure him, dragging his feet out of Peter’s lap so he can set aside his fork and turn toward Peter. “I just,” he hesitates a moment and then thinks, shit, might as well, so he sighs and goes on, “I’ve just never had someone want to take care of me like this. Pepper and Rhodey, sure, but no one I ever loved like _this_ , no one who loved _me_ , so yea, it’s a little new to me,” he admits quietly.

Peter stares at him for a moment and then leans forward, kisses him sweetly and smiles against his lips, laughs softly and kisses him again, “Well, then, get used to it babe, cuz I’m not going anywhere,” he promises and Tony’s heart lurches, beats too fast, and he’s suddenly breathless as Peter kisses him.

When Peter finally pulls away Tony has a silly grin on his face, and his heart feels lighter than it has in a long time. They eat and Peter tells him about the story he’s working on and they only get interrupted three times before Peter has to go, but it’s the nicest afternoon he’s had in long time, and when he swallows his nerves and tells Peter that, the younger man grins and tugs him close by his belt loops for a long, lingering kiss that leaves him dizzy.

“Have a good day,” Peter murmurs, winking at him as he opens the door.

Pepper steps in as he walks away and smiles, watching him go for a moment before she turns back and lifts a brow, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this happy,” she says, “He’s good for you.” He ducks and bites his lip, struggling not to grin like a fool, but when he looks back up, Pepper smiles sweetly and grabs his shoulder, squeezing gently, “I’m happy you’re happy,” she tells him and then nudges his arm with a wink, “but for now we have to go over the first quarter numbers.”

And just like that, his day takes a turn for the worse.

* * *

Tony steps out of SI headquarters and pauses, momentarily stunned by the sight before him. Peter grins at him from where he’s leaning against a motorcycle, arms crossed over his chest with a pleased little smirk on his face.

“I...what is this?” he asks with a laugh, waving a hand to the motorcycle as he approaches, leftover rain droplets spattering against his face as the breeze blows, ruffling Peter’s hair attractively—which, everything is attractive about Peter, so this is just another moment that he’s breathless and off kilter and feeling entirely out of his depth.

Peter grins and holds a hand out, tugs him closer so he’s between Peter’s spread legs and the younger man smiles up at him, “This, is me, taking my boyfriend away for a long weekend.”

When Tony opens his mouth Peter lifts a hand to cover his lips, shaking his head, “I already cleared it with Pepper, and your new suit won’t be ready till Monday, so for now, please take this,” he holds up a helmet and Tony laughs, feels it vibrate against Peter’s hand and nods, taking the weight of it from Peter’s hand, “get on behind me, and just hold on,” Peter says with a grin.

He buckles the helmet on and waits for Peter to straddle the motorcycle before sliding on behind him. The engine roars and a moment later they’re pulling away from the curb, wind whistling past and he can’t help but laugh, euphoria filling him as he clings to Peter.

* * *

Sweat clings to Peter’s brow as he rolls his hips, breathless and shaking in the pale moonlight. Tony stares up at him adoringly, hands firm on his waist as he rides Tony’s cock, gasping faintly at the slow, steady drag, over and over again.

His hands are braced against Tony’s chest, the reactor sandwiched between them, its steady glowing hum vibrating against his palms. His gaze is locked on Tony’s watching each micro expression that passes over his face as Peter clenches around him on his downward thrust, the heat and friction of their bodies growing slowly like an ember birthing a wildfire.

He’s slick and hot inside, shivers running over his body with each roll of his hips; he feels like he’s shaking apart under the intensity of Tony’s dark hungry gaze, the only thing holding him together the strong hands on his hips.

Tony’s rough hands are gentle but firm, slipping against his sweat slick skin occasionally before regaining his grip, and Peter sighs out _harder_ , reaches down to press Tony’s fingers deeper into his skin, gasping at the ache it sends through his body.

The urgency he normally feels to come isn’t quite there, it’s burning low in his gut because he’s more interested in the intimacy of this moment, in the adoration and awe he sees in Tony’s eyes. They’ve settled into a rhythm that keeps the fire in his belly burning low and constant, sweat shining on his skin as Tony leans up and presses kisses over his throat and chest, lips warm and wet against his skin.

Peter slides his arms around Tony’s shoulders, fingers toying with the soft hairs at the nape of his neck as they kiss, slow and warm and wet. Tony’s tongue slides against his and Peter moans softly, clenches against where Tony’s buried deep inside him, a soft shared gasp passing between their lips at the sensation.

“F-feel so good,” Peter whispers against his lips, breathless and hot. His throat is dry and he tries to swallow, but he can’t seem to get more than a breath of air before Tony rolls his hips and steals it away again with how he’s grinding into Peter. They shift and Tony sits up, hands sliding over the expanse of Peter’s back as he kisses him, drawing Peter down further onto his cock.

“So good,” Tony replies breathlessly, gasping as Peter clenches and rides him a little faster, greedy for the sensation of his cock against his prostate. “Fuck, Peter, just like that,” he moans, pressing his forehead into Peter’s chest as the younger man gasps his name and rolls his hips harder, faster.

Peter grasps Tony’s hair, dragging his head up for a kiss that’s sloppy and uncoordinated and desperately needy. “Will you…” Peter trails off against Tony’s lips, searching for his hand for a moment before taking it and wrapping it around his own cock, gasping at the throb he feels when Tony squeezes and rubs his thumb across the head of it.

“Like that?” Tony asks, continuing with those slow, painfully delicious swirls of his thumb over the head of Peter’s cock, smirking a little when Peter shudders and moans, nodding desperately and bouncing harder in his lap.

Tony doesn’t stroke him, just keeps up that slow, steady motion against the head of his cock where it’s most sensitive, the pleasure almost painful as it buries into his gut and spreads like shards of hot metal. He’s whimpering and riding Tony harder now, a choked off sob dying in his throat when Tony presses the nail of his thumb into his slit, hissing in delight at the spurt of creamy fluid that flows out and is immediately rubbed into his hot, aching flesh.

Peter whines Tony’s name and grinds down harder into him, gasping as Tony scrapes his nail against the slit, the sharp sensation making him curl inward, fingers tugging on Tony’s hair as spots of light flash in his eyes. Tony does it again and again and Peter whines, shuddering into the sensation as he buries his face against Tony’s throat, gasping and panting into his sweat slick skin.

“C’mon baby, don’t hide,” Tony croons, turning his chin to nudge at Peter’s head, “Lemme see you,” he whispers and Peter whimpers but sits up, giving Tony a shaky smile as he does and is rewarded with a slow stroke of his cock and a firm kiss as he whines and bucks into the touch.

Tony kisses him languidly, all tongue and teeth and sharp nips to his lip, hand stroking Peter’s cock slowly and Peter can’t bite back the wrecked moans that crawl their way out of his throat as his skin grows hot and tight, the need to come clawing its way forward. Tony’s other hand braces at his lower back, an anchor guiding him through the storm of desire flooding his body, his lungs aching with every painfully short breath he takes as Tony kisses him, lips sliding against each other over and over again.

“Please,” he begs, “please, god, Tony,” he moans brokenly, sobbing when Tony hushes him softly and continues stroking his cock so slow and steady it hurts. It hurts so good, the desperate ache to come making him shake in Tony’s arms, raw gasping breaths fluttering in his chest. Tony’s hand slides up his back to cup his neck, holding him so gently, so tenderly it makes tears spring to his eyes, makes his already dry throat thick and he gasps against Tony’s lips, “I love you, please, Tony, I love you.”

Tony groans and nods shortly, “Love you too baby, love you so much,” he breathes, tongue darting out against Peter’s lower lips to soothe the sting of a bite. They cling together, riding out the incoming storm of release till Peter is spilling over Tony’s fist with a low, broken cry, chest shuddering as he gasps for air, Tony’s name like a prayer on his lips.

Groaning, Tony pulls him closer, hips thrusting hard into where he’s hot and open and sensitive, and it’s too much, but it’s perfect, so he holds on and kisses Tony desperately, tears burning down his face as sensation fills him to overflowing, each stroke like a shock to his system.

“I love you Peter, love you,” Tony gasps as his thrusts grow sloppy and hard, brow furrowing in pleasure as he comes, groaning Peter’s name as he shakes and curses. When he’s still, his face is pressed into Peter’s throat, hot breath fanning over Peter’s sweat slick skin. Peter breathes heavily in his ear, little twitching aftershocks running through his system, muscles spasming as the white out in his brain slowly eases.

Tony’s kissing him then, firm and hungry and he’s saying things, things like _I love you_ and _you’re so beautiful_ and _how did I get so lucky?_ And honestly? Peter cries a little. Because he loves Tony and he can’t imagine his life without him now, and it scares him a little how thinking about the future of _them_ feels so goddamn right.

He’s sleepy, but he waits till after they’ve cleaned up to slide up behind Tony and spoon him, smiling against his spine when Tony grumbles about it but reaches back to take his hand and wrap his arm around his chest, pulling him closer. He kisses Tony’s back and sighs softly, happy and warm and with the man he loves.

He whispers those words against Tony’s skin but he doesn’t do more than sigh and shift, so he must be asleep, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s true and Peter isn’t going to stop saying it.

* * *

A cry of distress wakes Peter sometime in the night, the thrashing of limbs connecting painfully with his shin and chest and jaw before he rolls out of contact and hovers over Tony, biting his lip in worry. He’s not sure if he should reach out and touch him or not, and his hand shakes just over Tony’s shoulder before he lowers it and makes contact.

Tony’s eyes flash open, unseeing and glazed, the blue light of the reactor throwing the sharp lines of his face into relief, and then he’s moving faster than Peter thought possible, knocking Peter’s hand aside and snapping his head askew with a punch he doesn’t see coming. He’s on his back in three seconds flat with Tony’s weight on top of him, a hand around his throat and his vision swimming.

He claws at Tony’s hand and rasps out his name; “Tony...c’mon…’s me...Peter,” he gasps, pushing at his shoulder without actually moving him and as his vision starts to fade he realizes he’s going to have to hurt Tony to get him off. Gritting his jaw and steeling his resolve, he lifts his knee in a sharp movement straight to Tony’s groin that has him groaning and rolling off Peter.

Peter scuttles off the bed, fingers at his throat to feel the tender and swollen skin, wincing at the pain before he’s across the room to where Tony is curled against the wall, arms around his knees, a low pained keen coming from his throat.

Approaching cautiously, he calls Tony’s name till the other man lifts his gaze and recognition floods him and then he _flinches_ and a desperate, broken look skitters across his face and Peter feels sick as Tony literally _crawls_ away from him.

He can’t help the pained, hitching sound that comes from his throat as he hovers nearby, unshed tears burning in his eyes as Tony covers his face with his hands and shudders.

“Tony,” he calls softly, inhaling sharply when the older man flinches at his voice and shakes his head vehemently, curling in on himself as though he’s trying to make himself smaller. “Tony,” he tries again, voice pleading, “Baby, it’s okay, I’m okay,” he whispers desperately, “please, what do you need?”

Tony shakes his head and curls in on himself further, and when he whispers his voice his hoarse and low and wet with tears, “Just...leave me alone,” he says in a flat, cold voice that sends a chill over Peter’s spine.

It’s the absolute last thing he wants to do, but he nods, sniffles and scrubs at his eyes with the heel of his hand and walks away slowly, feet shuffling as he heads for the kitchen. He’s numb as he goes about filling the kettle, and he notes distantly that his hands are trembling, but when he tries to get them to stop they just shake harder.

He can’t hear anything from the other room as the water heats and he stands there staring out the window at the early spring rain that’s falling. He startles when the kettle shrieks and hurries to pour the water over the bags of mint tea he’s placed in two mugs. His hands work on autopilot and he hears feet on the wood floor before he sees Tony emerging from the bedroom out of the corner of his eye and he very carefully slides the mug along the counter before stepping back and leaning against the sink, watching him carefully.

Tony’s head is low, but Peter can see the ashy color to his skin, the dark circles under his eyes and the tremble in his hands as he reaches for the mug. It hurts him to see Tony like this, unable to do or say anything for fear of making it worse, because all he wants to do is wrap him in his arms and hold him till the shakes go away and the nightmare is nothing more than memory, but he knows from his own experience with long sleepless nights that sometimes there’s nothing anyone can do to make it better.

The heat from the mug sinks into his bones as he and Tony stand in silence together, not looking at each other, not speaking, the air between them filling with all the unsaid things he’s too scared to speak. When his mug is empty he sets it in the sink and steps away, pausing by Tony hesitantly, fingers twitching with the urge to reach out, but ultimately remain by his side.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he says quietly, voice hoarse and weak, and he hopes for just a moment that Tony will object, but he just nods and looks away, gaze firmly affixed to the wall, pain in the lines around his eyes as he stays silent.

Peter chokes on a sob and hurries away, grabs a pillow from the bed and a blanket before he curls onto the couch, cold and alone and heartbroken. This feels like the end of something—of them maybe—and it terrifies him because he doesn’t know how to make it better.

How do you fight memories?

How do you slay a nightmare?

He cries silently into his pillow and eventually falls asleep as dawn turns the sky a bruised shade of purple.

When he wakes hours later, there’s a note on the table beside him with his name on it, his dog tags holding the paper down. With trembling fingers he reaches out slides the paper out from under them, pain lancing through his chest like a knife to the heart, lungs spasming as he tries to breathe, tears flooding his eyes and falling on the paper till the words are obscured, but that doesn’t matter because they’re seared into his memory.

_Peter,_

_I can’t do this._

_Tony_


	16. I Can't Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony goes after the Ten Rings, Peter visits Ben, and a run in between Tony and Peter turns out unexpectedly.

_Tony is ten when he finds out his mother loves someone who isn’t his father._

_He’s just arrived home from school and he’s gone to find her to tell her about the new boy in school—Wade Wilson, who might just be his new friend—when he pauses outside the study doors, his mother’s voice joined by an unfamiliar one that’s lower and distinctly masculine._

_“Maria, amore, perché non lo lasci?”_

_“You know why I can’t—Howard would never let me take Tony. He’d keep my son Antonio, and I can’t—I can’t bear that.”_

_“You think he’d keep you from Tony?”_

_“Of course. He’d use Tony to punish me and would blame him for me leaving and...I can’t, I can’t do that amore, I will not abandon my son.”_

_“We could run away together. You know my family would protect you. We could go back to Sicily, you could have the sun on your face and the wind in your hair and be happy amore. Tony could play with children his age, have friends...maybe a brother or sister?”_

_There’s a sharp inhalation and then what sounds like a sob. The man makes soothing sounds and he hears his mother’s tears grow muffled. The man croons to her in Italian and Tony’s cheek burn at the tender words the man whispers._

_He’s never heard a man speak that way to a woman._

_When his mother sniffles and speaks, her voice is quivering and weak. “I can’t have more children Antonio. After the accident...well, it was easier I suppose.”_

_They’re silent for a long time and Tony finally pushes the door open, watching as his mother’s head comes up, her hands held between the man’s in his lap, eyes wide with surprise._

_“Tony!” his mother says, startled. She hesitates for a moment and then pulls her hands free and waves him over with a smile. “This is my friend Antonio. We’ve known each other for years, since I was a little girl in Sicily,” she explains._

_He nods and turns to the man, extends his hand politely and Antonio grins widely, shaking it firmly. “Tony, it’s very good to meet you! I saw you when you were just a baby, but now I hear you’re busy with impressing your teacher! Your mother says you’ve been working on a robot of some kind?”_

_Tony hesitates a moment and then nods, eagerly explaining his robot AI Dum-E. His mother smiles proudly at him as he waves his hands, talking a mile a minute, pure excitement filling him that someone is actually interested in what he’s created._

_His mother reminds him kindly that he still has homework to do and he rolls his eyes but sinks to the floor at her feet, propping his chemistry book on his knees, taking notes while his mother and Antonio talk, her fingers furrowing through his hair gently._

_They’ve switched to French, and he’s less familiar with it, can only pick up a few words here and there, but he does catch something that won’t make sense till many years later._

_“Il a mes yeux et ton sourire,” Antonio murmurs to his mother and when Tony glances up, she smiles at him, fear in her eyes._

_“He has his father’s eyes,” she agrees._

* * *

“ _Tony_ ,” Pepper sighs and ah, _there’s_ that familiar tone of exasperation and disappointment. He grins at her blearily from where he’s slumped on the shop floor, Dum-E hovering anxiously nearby. There’s an empty bottle of whiskey near his foot that skitters across the floor after a nudge from Pepper’s heel, her mouth pursed tight.

“Tony, you can’t keep going like this,” she murmurs, staring down at him with sad eyes and he hates that it’s because of him, that he’s let her down once again. He’s reliable for nothing more than causing other people pain and heartache and it turns his gut, how useless he is.

“M’sorry Pep,” he whispers, fingers tangled in the material of his shirt, the cool metal of the reactor just below it. He feels around with his other hand for a bottle that isn’t empty, head rolling on his shoulders as he searches fruitlessly, frustration welling within him.

His fingers close around the neck of one of the empty bottles and he heaves it, huffing in satisfaction when it smashes against the wall before he lurches to the side, unbalanced and dizzy. Pepper curses and crouches down, a hand firm under his bicep as she tries to lever him to his feet, but he shrugs away, pushing her hand aside angrily.

“Just...don’t!” he shouts, slurs really. “Leave me alone Pep...not worth your time…” he murmurs, shaking his head and turning away so he can crawl to his hands and knees and rise to his feet unsteadily.

“Tony,” she calls weakly after him, “The internet rollout for Manhattan is today, you’re supposed to be there,” she reminds him.

He pauses at the door and shakes his head, “Nobody wants me there,” he tells her quietly. “They don’t want me, they just want what I can give them.”

She doesn’t say anything to that, doesn’t try to stop him when he heads for the elevator, and when he makes it up to the penthouse he stumbles for his room, fingers searching till he finds whiskey and pain pills.

They’re white and round in his palm and he stares at them for a long time before he throws them into his mouth and chases them with a mouthful of whiskey straight from the bottle. Everything hurts and he just wants to chase it all away; the pain, the loneliness, the ache of missing Peter. His body and mind feel so distant and he doesn’t know how to free his mind from the endless loop of nightmares and Peter’s face; hurt and pale and achingly sad.

Grimacing, he takes another long swallow of whiskey and closes his eyes, head falling back against the couch as his head starts to swim and thinking becomes a little harder.

As he drifts away on an ocean of whiskey and regret, the one thing that stays with him is Peter’s face.

* * *

“So, he just, left?”

Peter nods and sips his beer, feet dangling over the edge of his fire escape, Ned’s feet beside his.

“And he didn’t explain?”

“He had a nightmare and freaked out, there’s not much to explain,” Peter replies tonelessly.

“Yea, but—”

“But nothing—he doesn’t want me anymore, doesn’t want us, because he thinks I can’t handle him or whatever. He wants to be alone,” Peter says, cutting Ned off with a shake of his head before he can say more. He swallows down the last of his beer and tosses it over the edge and into the dumpster with a humorless little smile as it shatters.

They sit in silence for awhile before Ned sighs and shakes his head, “I can’t believe he just left. You should try to talk to him,” he encourages gently and Peter knows he’s just being a good friend, but it hurts to hear anyway.

“I don’t want to talk to him,” he lies.

Ned looks over at him skeptically but doesn’t say anything, just lifts a brow.

“It’s fine,” Peter lies.

Ned shakes his head.

“I’m fine.”

And that right there is the biggest lie he’s ever told.

* * *

Pepper gives him a week of drowning his sorrows in a bottle before she sics Rhodey on him and has the cleaning people take every bottle and pill out of the building. He’s forced into the shower, given a shave and stuffed into a suit before being marched before the board to assure them of his continuing commitment to SI and he has to stuff his hands in his pockets to hide the tremors running over them.

He spends the next two weeks sobering up and working in the shop, in the clinic and at SI. They roll out internet for Manhattan and clean energy for the whole of New York City and the team working on the serum has a breakthrough when they realize that the HIV virus that causes AIDS works by attacking the body’s immune system, specifically the CD4 cells (T cells), which help the immune system fight off infections.

It’s a win, though it doesn’t feel much like one, and he’s bitter that Peter isn’t around for him to share this with, but then, that’s his own fault. He’s the one who pushed Peter away, and now he has to live with the consequences.

He finishes Mark III of the suit and stands blank eyed as it assembles around him, his neck itchy and his skin feels oddly bare—he’d given Peter his tags back but now without them, he feels empty, shaken and lonely.

Blasting off, he flies into the night and focuses on his goal; finding the Ten Rings.

* * *

“Pepper says he’s a mess,” MJ tells him over lunch and he stills, sandwich halfway to his mouth heart in his throat for a moment before he swallows and shakes his head, takes a bite and chews carefully before speaking.

“It was his choice.”

MJ snorts, “Yea and? It was a dumb choice he made while scared and reliving trauma.”

“That doesn’t make it less valid,” Peter snaps, fingers curling into the bread of his sandwich so tight he has to remind himself not to smash it to pieces with his grip.

“No, it means you should fight for him. He was scared and hurt and he ran away because he didn’t want to hurt you. If you want him, you need to fight for him,” she tells him sharply before crumpling her empty bag of chips and tossing it away.

She rises to her feet and he finally looks up, surprised when she sighs and shakes her head, smiles wryly at him and lays a hand on his cheek.

“You fought a war that was senseless and survived. Go fight for this relationship and _live_ ,” she murmurs before patting his cheek and walking away.

He stares after her, silently shaken.

* * *

Tony soars through the skies, adrenaline rushing as he flies back home, suit riddled with bullet holes and a sense of satisfaction filling him. They’re dead—every member of the Ten Rings he could find—dead.

Part of him wonders if he should feel guilty for killing them, but then he thinks of Yinsen with blood in his teeth and a promise made to make his survival worth it and thinks that, no, he’s not going to feel guilty over this.

* * *

Tony struggles against the machinery stripping off his suit, “Be gentle, this is my first time,” he grunts, wincing as one of the gauntlets pinches, “I designed this to come off you know,” he pants.

“Please try not to move,” JARVIS says dryly.

Footsteps grow closer and he glances over, wincing when he sees Pepper stepping into the shop.

Oh _shit_ , he’s in trouble.

Her eyes going wide, “What's going on here?” she demands breathlessly, stepping forward cautiously as the suit is pulled off piece by piece.

He tries for humor, “Let's face it, this is not the worst thing you've caught me doing,” he jokes, and Pepper just exhales, shakes her head at him and then, her gaze slips down, mouth pursing.

“Are those _bullet holes?”_ she demands, voice rising dangerously and yea, yea he’s _definitely_ in trouble.

* * *

Peter pulls the motorcycle into his garage, peering over his shoulder at the figure waiting by the stairs, shrouded in shadow. He locks the door and strides over, steps slowing when he gets closer and realizes it’s Tony. They stare at each other for a long moment before he squares his shoulders and steps past, heart in his throat.

“Peter, please, wait.”

He keeps going, climbing the stairs at a pace that’s just shy of running.

“Peter, please, let me explain,” Tony pleads.

Peter whirls on the landing and glares at him, “Explain? You mean like you should have done in the first place instead of using a fucking _note_ to leave me?” he hisses, anger coiling hot and ugly in his belly.

Tony flinches, hurt and sorrow in his dark eyes, face lined with grief and pain, but Peter can’t look at him, can’t see those things and not want to pull him into his arms, so he looks away and grits his jaw.

“Peter, I left because I hurt you. I attacked you and choked you and could have killed you and it scared me more than the nightmare did. I didn’t want to hurt you again, I didn’t want to dream about drowning and dying and trying to escape and lash out again. What if I did something worse?” he pleads, stepping closer, close enough that Peter can smell his familiar cologne and the scent of metalwork on his skin and he stumbles back a step, heart racing.

He chances a look and sees the pain in Tony’s eyes.

“I never wanted to hurt you Peter, please, believe me.”

And just like that the anger coiled inside him snaps.

His head comes up, cold fury in his gaze enough to drive Tony back a step.

He finds himself stepping forward and pulling aside the collar of his shirt so he can expose the knot of scar tissue in his shoulder. “Look at that,” he demands, low and harsh. “You see it?”

Tony nods hesitantly.

“That’s where I got shot, running for my life in Vietnam right before Jacques was killed. The absolute _worst_ day of my life I thought.”

He yanks up his sleeve and exposes the jagged lines on his wrist and Tony inhales sharply, reaches out with shaking fingers and Peter yanks his arm away, tears burning in his eyes and he’s not sure if they’re angry or sad or both, but he can’t let them fall, not yet. He has to get behind his front door before he can fall apart.

“Then I came home and found out that everyday was the worst day because everyone hated me for being in Vietnam. They hated my friends. And here I was, dreaming of the worst day of my life every night and trying to survive, and I couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand the pain and the anxiety and the nightmares so I took my KBAR and cut my wrist and prayed I’d die but Ned found me and made sure I didn’t.”

He shakes his head and swipes angrily at his eyes, at the tears that want to fall and looks Tony dead in the eye for what he says next.

“And none of that pain hurt as badly as you leaving me did.”

Tony visibly recoils, color draining from his face as his throat works hard and Peter feels like he’s going to be sick—there’s bile in the back of his throat and his skin is icy and clammy and he stumbles back toward his door.

“Just leave me alone Tony,” he whispers before he turns away and fumbles his key into the lock and slams the door behind him, locks it for good measure. He stumbles to his bathroom and vomits, sobbing as his tears finally fall.

When there’s nothing left to bring up he slumps against the cool tile floor and cries until he passes out, weak and exhausted and heartbroken.

He doesn’t know it, but Tony stands for a very long time on his landing, grief stricken and too numb to move.

* * *

It’s been...nearly a year since he’s been here.

The sun is out, warm and gentle on the breeze, the flags on the graves flapping softly.

The cold marble at his feet bears the name of his uncle, though it’s dirty and faded and guilt simmers in his belly that it’s in this condition. He kneels into the damp earth and scrubs at the surface with a rag he’s brought before he rolls up his sleeves and gets to work yanking out the weeds that have grown around the stone.

When he’s done he plants brown eyed susans—Uncle Ben’s favorite. He smiles as he plants them, recalling all the times Ben would stop and bring a bouquet home for May, calling her his brown eyed girl as he swept her around their tiny kitchen to Marvin Gaye.

Rocking back, he shifts and sits down, dirty fingers toying with a clump of grass as his throat works against the tears that have been threatening to fall since he stepped off his motorcycle and onto the perfectly manicured grass.

He clears his throat and ducks his chin, “I uh, I’m sorry I haven’t come around lately Ben, I just, I didn’t know what to say,” he whispers. “I was mad at you for a long time for ending it the way you did, and that wasn’t fair because I tried to do the same thing. You deserved better than my anger and I’m so sorry, god, Ben, I’m sorry,” he sobs, burying his face in his knees, shoulders shaking as he falls apart.

By the time he’s collected himself and wipes off his face with the hem of his shirt, he hears a commotion in the distance—what sounds like shouting. Turning, he frowns when he sees a group of paparazzi and reporters, calling out questions to….

Tony

That’s Tony.

He’s on his feet before he realizes what he’s doing, heart pounding as he gets closer and closer, the sound of the reporter’s questions finally reaching him.

“Mr. Stark, what would your father think of the new direction your company is taking?”

“Mr. Stark do you miss your parents?”

“Mr. Stark, can you confirm the rumors that you and Tiberius Stone were once involved?”

Peter sees red.

He storms up to the men and joins Happy in pushing them back, glowering when the man who asked about Tiberius tries to elbow past him. He drops his shoulder and nudges him away and then steps back to glare at the group.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” he hisses, “this a place of peace and Mr. Stark is here to grieve. Everyone should get to do that in privacy without having a bunch of animals on their heels trying to get a photo of something private or a quote on a manufactured scandal.”

Happy glances at him and then waves at the group, “Get out of here before I call the police,” he snaps, shouldering his large frame forward threateningly until they begin to retreat.

They stand together until the last of them have disappeared and then the older man rounds on him, glaring.

“You can go now.”

“Happy, no, it’s fine.”

Peter’s shoulders stiffen at the sound of Tony’s voice and he swallows hard before turning to find him striding over, the mausoleum that holds his parent’s ashes looming behind him like a dark, gothic figure.

Happy sneers at Peter but steps aside and retreats to the car at a nod from Tony, leaving them standing in the sun, awkward and silent. Tony gives him a faint smile, lines between his brows and Peter can see new ones around his eyes and dark circles under his eyes and his stomach clenches at how _thin_ he looks.

It hurts; to care this much about someone else...it hurts and he doesn’t know why anyone would ever willingly do it.

Tony stares at him longingly and then glances away, cheeks flushed. “Can we, uh, can we talk?” he asks hesitantly, and Peter wants to say _no_ , knows that he should, but then he’s nodding before he can get the word out and Tony points to the mausoleum, “A little privacy okay?” he asks, stepping toward it.

Peter just nods and follows after, him, inhaling the scent of dust and dirt and decay as he steps into the cool stone interior.

Tony turns to face him, a pained smile on his face and gestures between them, “I…I’m sorry for how this turned out,” he says, grimacing. “I never wanted to hurt you, I was trying to avoid that, and I’m, christ, Pete, I’m so sorry.”

Peter nods and looks down resolutely at the floor, “Yea, I know Tony. I know,” he murmurs.

“Can you, I mean, can we?...”

Peter shakes his head and steps back, “I...how do I know you won’t do it again?” he asks.

“I won’t! I wouldn’t!”

Peter’s head snaps up and he takes three steps closer before he stops himself, hands clenched at his sides, “But you _did_ ,” he snaps, “you already did, so how can I trust you?” he demands.

Tony’s mouth quavers and he nods, glancing away, “Right...no that’s fair. I uh, I don’t know how to make you trust me,” he admits, “I just know I can’t...I don’t want to be without you.”

“Then you shouldn’t have left.”

Tony looks up at that, eyes blazing as he steps forward and they’re close now, so close he can see the flares of honey brown in them, warm and familiar and angry, so angry.

“You think I don’t know that? I know I fucked up Peter, all I’m asking for is the chance to make it right, to prove to you that I still love you!”

Peter is scared, scared to say yes, scared that he still wants Tony, that he still loves him, scared of how _much_ he loves him and that he’ll do it again and that he won’t survive it if he does. He throws up a sneer and steps back, “You wouldn’t have left if you love me,” he snaps, regrets it the second he sees the hurt in Tony’s eyes, turns away so he doesn’t have to see it.

A hand latches around his wrist and yanks, hauls him back around and into Tony’s arms and then he’s kissing him and oh, oh it’s so familiar and so different from every other time Tony has ever kissed him. It’s too hard and there’s too much teeth, both of them fighting for dominance and he tastes copper but he’s not sure whose blood it is in his mouth.

‘I left, but you’re running away,” Tony pants against his lips, eyes blazing when Peter opens his eyes to look up at him.

He hates that Tony’s right.

Peter kisses him again, furious and gnashing, shoves him back until his back hits the stone behind him and Tony grunts but takes it, hands shoving under his shirt and grabbing his ass, hauling him closer as he bites Peter’s lip and then trails his lips down his throat. Peter can feel the marks he’s leaving but he can’t bring himself to care because Tony’s nails rake down his back and he rolls his hips into Peter’s and he realizes they’re both hard.

He gasps into the dusty air and fists Tony’s shirt, hanging on as the older man growls, bites and licks his throat, hand shoving down the back of his jeans to palm his ass. Peter huffs and works his hand between them to cup where Tony is hard, squeezing and relishing in the almost pained groan Tony lets out.

He works his wrist until Tony is shuddering and shoving his hand aside in favor of working his trousers open enough that he can get his cock out. Peter goes to put his hand on it but Tony knocks it aside again and wrestles Peter’s jeans open and Peter gasps when Tony’s hand wraps around him and pulls him free, gives him one, two, three strokes before arching his hips and then, oh christ, _then_.

Tony wraps a hand around both their cocks and strokes, the friction just shy of painful and Peter gasps, arches into it, shuddering as it continues, fire racing up his spine with each stroke.

“Fuck,” he hisses, turning his chin to capture Tony’s lips with his own, panting as Tony nips and sucks at his lip, breath panting as they arch into each other, pleasure hot and demanding between them. He turns his chin and breathes against Tony’s neck, rasping and uneven as Tony curses and strokes them harder.

Peter bites back a whimper as heat curls up his spine, an aching desperation to come soaking into his bones. Tony nuzzles into Peter’s hair, gasping in his ear, wordless and hot, breath fanning over his skin wetly.

Each stroke of Tony’s hand elicits a tiny whimpered _ah_ sound from the back of Peter’s throat, unwillingly taken, painfully given. He shudders and moans, tears wetting his lashes as heat builds, crawling up his spine, and for a moment he wants to fight it, wants to pull away, take Tony’s hand off him and run away, but then, he’s never run away from a fight before and that’s what this is, a fight for dominance and control and for _them_ and he’s damned if he’s going to quit now.

He arches into Tony’s grip and comes, crying out sharply as his come spurts over Tony’s hand, slicking the way as Tony continues stroking. Tony groans his name and strokes faster, hips bucking into Peter’s and a few moments later as Peter’s starting to ache from the stimulation, comes.

Tony shakes apart, moaning Peter’s name, cum slicking along their cocks as his hand slows and then falls away. While he’s still catching his breath, Peter steps back, cool air flooding the space between them. With shaking hands he stumbles back further and tucks himself into his jeans, breathing too fast as Tony leans a hand against the wall, chest heaving.

They’re silent as Tony recovers and cleans himself off, clothing readjusted before he turns and faces Peter.

“So, uh, what—”

Peter edges back, swallowing hard against his emotions. “I’ll uh, I’ll see you later,” he murmurs before turning and hurrying out of the mausoleum. Tony edges forward, leaning in the doorway, watching his retreat, neither of them paying any attention to the man lingering nearby, camera slung round his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Italian in this chapter is as follows:
> 
> Maria, amore, perché non lo lasci?--Maria, my love, why don't you leave him?  
> Il a mes yeux et ton sourire--He has my eyes and your smile.


	17. Rocket Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Peter and Tony are found out, Peter gets a new job and makes a very public apology.

Pepper keeps her head high as Bucky escorts her down to the server room, one hand cautiously kept close to his gun, their steps quiet as they climb down to the lower levels. Once they’re in the server room he posts at the door and gives her a nod before turning to watch out the door for anyone who might come looking for them.

The room is icy cold to keep the servers from overheating and Pepper shivers, searching for the main server tower that Peter had told her would be where she needed to insert the chips that housed JARVIS. She’s nervous, cold sweat on the back of her neck as she works toward the center of the enormous room, sighing in relief when she finds the central tower.

Her fingers only fumble twice before the panel opens and she can slide the chips in, connect the right wires, and then with a silent prayer, flips the switch to reset the system. Peter had assured her it would take less than ten minutes to reboot the system and get it online so JARVIS had control, but every minute that ticks by feels like a lifetime.

She hopes that the interview with Stane is going well and serving as an adequate distraction to prevent him or anyone else from finding out what exactly it is she’s doing down here, because the last thing she wants is to have to lie her way out of this mess.

When the lights on the server tower blink green again, she shuts the panel and hurries back to where Bucky is waiting; they share a quick nod and a slight smile before he escorts her back up the stairs and then melts away like shadow—off to his real job keeping SI secure.

She tucks her hands under her arms, flexing her fingers over and over again to try and work the trembling out of her system, and by the time the doors open on the 41st floor, she’s calm.

Obadiah smiles at her as she steps into his office, ostensibly there to make sure the interview stays on course, while also providing her with a decent alibi should anyone notice that the internal SI system went offline.

MJ glances up and there’s a moment of warmth in her eyes before she turns back to Obadiah and continues asking questions. Pepper can’t really hide the smile that comes to her lips when Obadiah trips over a particularly tough question from MJ, pride swelling within her at how badass and smart her girlfriend is.

Across the room, Peter snaps pictures and glances up to meet her gaze. They share a smile and Pepper edges out of the room, leaving the journalists to do what they do best while she does what she does best—run Tony Stark’s company.

* * *

“So, has JARVIS found anything yet?” Peter asks, looking up hesitantly from where he’s been toying with his glass, the amber liquid inside untouched.

Rhodey shakes his head and sips at his scotch, mouth pursing against the burn. “Too soon. He said it’ll take a week or so to track any calls and create a workable pattern of recognition for when Obadiah makes another call.”

Peter nods slowly and taps his fingernails against the glass, unsure of what to say now.

“You and Tony—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Peter cuts in, shaking his head.

Rhodey smirks, “Yea that’s about what he said too. Listen, you might not wanna talk about it, but that doesn’t mean I can’t. So listen up kid.” Peter looks up and glares at him over the nickname, but doesn’t say anything.

Rhodey nods in satisfaction and continues, “Well then. Tony is an idiot for leaving you, but he did it because he figures you’d leave him first because that’s what everyone else has done, one way or another. His father treated him like shit and made sure he knew how worthless he thought Tony was. The first girl he ever slept with sold the story to a tabloid. Tiberius,” Rhodey pauses and shakes his head, “Tiberius very nearly finished the job his father started.”

Rhodey looks up at him, “So when he apologized to you Peter, he meant it. He loves you like he’s never loved anyone. So I need you to get your head outta your ass and decide if you want to be with him or if you’re done. Because if you’re done, you need to walk away and never talk to him again. Otherwise you’re going to break his heart and I’m going to have to do something about it.”

There’s a dangerous look in his eye as he gazes steadily at Peter, “And I don’t want to have to do something about it Peter.”

Peter swallows hard and nods slowly, gulps down his scotch and gives Rhodey a pained smile, “Neither do I.”

Rhodey nods and pours him another drink, “Then drink up kid, we’ve got a lot to talk about.”

* * *

When Peter walks into the newsroom three days later a hush falls, whispers following in his wake and a chill crawls up his spine when he sees MJ’s face. She’s waiting by his desk, hands wrapped around a newspaper that she holds out to him with shaking hands.

He takes it and feels the world drop out from under him when he sees the photo and headline that he knows without hesitation will destroy his world.

“Parker! My office, now!”

He flinches at the shout from Jameson’s office and hands the paper back to MJ, gives her a weak smile before turning, and heads into the lion’s den to have his head eaten.

Things pass in a haze as Jameson screams and shouts, thick finger pointing in his face over and over again before he’s handed a letter notifying him of his termination. He walks out and clears his desk, mind racing as he tries to process what it is that’s happening.

He grabs the paper and tosses it into the box, giving MJ a shaky smile before he’s escorted out of the building. He stands on the sidewalk for a long time, staring at the building he’s spent four years of his life working in, and then, out of the blue, laughs.

Once he starts he can’t stop and he’s left standing on the street, laughing like a fool.

* * *

“Are you okay honey? Do you need a drink?”

May hovers, hands twining together nervously as he sits on her couch, dazed.

“Peter? Baby?”

He finally looks up and stares at her for a moment before nodding, “Yea, yea I’m okay May,” he murmurs, “Uh, can I use your old typewriter?” he asks, a plan solidifying in his mind. May stares at him for a moment and then nods, fluttering out of the room for a few minutes and he hears her muttering to herself and the thump of objects shifting in the hall closet before she’s back, carrying the typewriter.

He sets it on the dining room table and slides in a fresh sheet of paper, fingers hovering over the keys for a moment before he grins and starts writing.

* * *

Tony stares at the headline of the tabloid, gut burning with bile and anger and fear.

**TONY STARK CAUGHT PANTS DOWN—WITH A MAN!**

**_Tony Stark was caught with his pants down in his parent’s mausoleum, and this time his bad behavior comes with a side of homosexuality! The man in this photo is none other than Bugle photojournalist Peter Parker. Mr. Parker was an imbedded journalist during the Vietnam War with the acclaimed Howling Commandos unit—a legacy he carried on after his own Uncle was injured in the war and received a medical discharge. There were longstanding rumors of Mr. Stark’s proclivities and a source close to Mr. Stark has told us that on more than one occasion in prep school Mr. Stark was known for trading sexual favors. One has to wonder if Mr. Parker and Mr. Stark have been trading the same such sexual favors in exchange for good press._ **

Huffing, Tony tosses the paper aside and rubs a hand over his face, already tired. Pepper and the public relations team were going to have a field day trying to clean this shit up.

“Miss Potts on the line for you,” JARVIS chimes in and Tony huffs a laugh, shakes his head, “Right on time,” he mutters, “Put her through J.”

There’s a moment of silence and then—

“I need you to keep quiet til I get ahold of Peter.”

He sighs and wipes a hand over his face again, “I know Pep, I know.”

She sighs and goes quiet for a moment and then sighs again. “I’m sorry Tony, neither of you deserve this ugliness. I promise, we’re going to handle this.”

There are exhausted tears in his eyes but he blinks them back and stares up at the ceiling, “Yea Pep. I know.”

“I love you Tony.”

He smiles faintly, “Love you too Pep.”

“Alright, well, I have to go protect your ass. Will that be all Mr. Stark?”

“That’ll be all Miss Potts.”

* * *

“And why should we print your story let alone hire you Mr. Parker? No other paper in this city, let alone one on the East Coast will touch you, so why should the Times take that risk?”

Peter smiles, “Because I have a story about Stark Industries and double dealing with terrorists that’s going to put this paper up for a Pulitzer.”

The editor lifts a brow and leans forward, “Tell me more.”

“Print my story and I will,” Peter counters, holding his breath till the older man grins and laughs, tapping his fingers on his desk for a moment before he nods.

“Okay Mr. Parker, welcome to the Times.”

* * *

AN AFFAIR OF THE HEART

**Peter Parker**

**_Many of you only know my name because it’s been splashed across the pages of gossip magazines and tabloids, accusing me of lewd, amoral behavior with a man who has been known for wild behavior for many years. Maybe it doesn’t surprise you, maybe it confirms everything you’ve thought about Tony Stark and gay men in particular, but what you should understand is, I don’t care._ **

**_What you think of the man I love, Tony Stark, is far more important to me than any rumors or speculation or hateful speech that comes my way._ **

**_I’m sure many of you will ignore everything I have to say based solely on the fact that I am bisexual and sleeping with a man, but I want you to know, that what you don’t know about me is far more interesting than what you_ ** **_do_ ** **_. What you don’t know about me is that I am not just a journalist but a veteran of the Vietnam War, a godfather and nephew, an engineering nerd and a man in love._ **

**_I have made mistakes in my past, as have we all, and Tony Stark’s mistakes are no less painful to him than my own are to me._ **

**_When Tony Stark discovered the extent to which his weapons were being used against innocent people, he changed the direction of his company. He has revolutionized internet access and clean energy for those of us that live in and around New York City. There is now a free clinic that services those who are suffering from HIV/AIDS while searching for a treatment and a cure for a disease that has been ravaging New York City while most other people, especially those in Congress and the White House, have ignored the growing crisis._ **

**_Tony Stark is not a perfect man. But he is a good man. A man who cares very deeply about improving the lives of everyday people. A man who enjoys mint chocolate chip ice cream and takes his coffee black and by the gallon._ **

**_A man who, at the end of the day, deserves far better than to have his name dragged through the mud for no reason other than homophobia and fear. So go ahead, call him a faggot or a freak, but just remember the next time you turn the lights on or use the internet or receive your medications for free that your life is made better by the very man you hate._ **

**_Tony Stark is a man worthy of respect, of love and he is a man who deserves more than to have his reputation destroyed for having the audacity to love a man. I regret many things in my life, but loving Tony Stark is not one of them. I do however, regret walking away from that man and that love._ **

**_I’m sorry Tony._ **

* * *

Tony’s hands shake as he sets aside the paper, tears in his eyes. He presses a shaking hand to his lips and laughs brokenly, “J man, call Rhodey.”

“Happily sir.”

* * *

“Agent Carter here.”

“Hello Agent Carter, my name is JARVIS, I work for Mr. Stark.”

Peggy lifts a brow, “I thought the only JARVIS that works for Stark is an artificial intelligence?”

“You are correct ma’am. However, I do have information for you, pertaining to the investigation into Mr. Stane.”

Both brows lift at that and Peggy shifts in her chair, grabs a notepad and nods, “Very good JARVIS, what have you got?”

“December 16, 1980. Autopsy Report for Howard and Maria Stark.”

* * *

_The road ahead is abandoned, winding and dusted with snow. Howard’s hands are steady on the wheel, mouth pressed in a firm line as he peers into the distance, keeping a close eye on the worsening weather._

_“We should have taken the highway,” Maria murmurs, shivering as she wraps her shawl tighter around her shoulders._

_Howard glances over and spares a moment to turn the heat up, “It’s fine. We’ll get home twenty minutes faster this way,” he says dismissively._

_Maria rolls her eyes but nods, “Of course Howard,” she agrees, voice dry._

_“_ **_Of course Howard_ ** _” the man mutters mockingly, “Do you have to be such a bitch about everything?” he spits, shaking his head._

_Maria stares at him for a long moment before laughing sharply and shaking her head, “Tony is an adult now, which means you can’t take him from me. I want a divorce.”_

_Howard’s jaw grits as he turns to stare at her, rage flushing his cheeks. “You cunning_ **_bitch_ ** _,” he hisses._

_Maria huffs a laugh and turns away, eyes widening at the sight of the figure in the road ahead. Hand lashing out, she grabs Howard’s arm, breathless. “Look out!”_

_It’s too late by the time Howard tries to wrench the wheel, too late when the man shoots at the vehicle and sends it careening into a tree, and far, far too late when the man rips the door open and hauls Howard and Maria out into the snow._

_“Please...please...my wife,” Howard pleads as the man hovers over him, eyes dark and blank. The coppery taste of blood and terror fills his mouth as the man reaches down, hand closing around his throat like a vise._

_He’s hauled to his feet and shaken like a puppy, “The serum,” the man demands, fingers tight around Howard’s throat. Howard scratches at the hand, nails scrabbling against leather, gasping for air. The man shakes him again and then throws him to the ground, a gun in his hand faster than Howard can process._

_It’s pressed to his forehead and the eyes that stare down at him are dead, hollow._

_“H-Howard...please....just give it to him.”_

_“No,” he hisses, “I won’t.”_

_The man stares at him for a long moment and then nods, holsters the gun and strides around the car, hand lashing out to wrap around Maria’s throat. Those deep, emotionless eyes meet Howard’s, and fear pours through him like icy water._

_“The serum.”_

_“Howard...please!”_

_He...he looks over to Maria and a flash of regret passes through him. He really should have been a better husband._

_He looks back up at the man and shakes his head, “No.”_

_Maria sobs and laughs brokenly, bitterly. “You coward. You—”_

_Her words are cut off as the man snaps her neck, her limp body falling to the ground with a thud._

_Howard watches through blurry vision as the man stalks over, gaze vacant as he lifts his fist and swings it at his face. He slumps to the ground, the man following him down, fist connecting with his face over and over again till his jaw is shattered and his eye socket is a mangled mess._

_The last thing he sees before he closes his eyes for the last time is Maria’s face, twisted in death, eyes wide and sightless, staring into him._

_The man pulls the briefcase from the trunk and pockets the serum, tosses the briefcase into the backseat and hauls the bodies back into the car before setting it on fire. He shoots out the security camera in the trees and walks away as the vehicle burns, satisfied with a mission well done._

* * *

There’s a package waiting in Tony’s shop when he gets back from SI, wrapped in plain brown paper with his name on top. Pausing, he unwraps it slowly, fingers pulling away as what’s beneath is revealed.

It’s his old arc reactor.

Encased in glass and engraved.

_Proof that Tony Stark has a Heart._

He flips open the note and stares at it until the words start to blur.

_Tony, I always knew you had a heart, I just didn’t know I would break it. I’m sorry._

_I love you,_

_Peter_

* * *

There’s a knock at the door, drawing Peter out of the bedroom, toweling at his hair as he shuffles barefoot to answer it. When it swings open to reveal a wet, hopeful looking Tony, his heart lurches into his stomach and his breath punches out of his lungs. The towel slips from numb fingers and he reaches out, pauses with his fingers just millimeters from Tony’s damp shirt and stares up at him, wide eyed, painfully hopeful and scared out of his mind.

Tony’s hand lifts and wraps around his wrist, eliciting a soft gasp at the cool touch to his shower warmed skin. He clears his throat and squeezes Peter’s wrist gently, eyes warm and hopeful.

“I read your article,” he whispers, mouth quirking to one side, “I uh, no one has ever done something like that before for me.”

Peter nods unevenly, “Because no one has loved you like I do,” he replies hoarsely, throat working hard at the stunned look on Tony’s face—he’s done that, he’s made Tony question his love and his stomach turns at the thought. “I’m so sorry for hurting you Tony, for walking away, for making you think I didn’t want you,” he’s rambling but he can’t seem to stop, “I will always want you, I will always love you and I’ll do anything to prove that to you.”

Tony takes him by surprise then, laughing softly, the lines around his eyes softening his face in a way that makes Peter’s stomach flutter. Tony lifts his other hand and strokes his knuckles across Peter’s cheek, heat following in the wake of his touch.

“We both fucked up babe, but that doesn’t mean you have anything to prove. I know you love me and I know I don’t want to lose you ever again, so, let’s just,” he sighs and laughs faintly, “let’s go inside. Because I’m wet and cold and I’d really, _really_ like to not be.”

Peter laughs wetly, nodding as he steps back, tugging on where their hands are still joined to tug him into the apartment, grinning as he shoves Tony’s leather jacket off and slides his hands under his tshirt to feel the ripple of muscle as Tony pushes him against the wall and kisses him, kisses him so hard his head spins.

When Tony pulls away, his lips are wet and bruised, but the smile in his eyes and on his lips makes Peter’s heart flip in his chest.

“Stay?”

Tony grins, “For as long as you’ll have me baby.”

Peter tugs him back in for another kiss, “Forever Tony, I’ll have you forever.”


	18. Hurts So Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Obadiah finds out how Tony got free, Tony makes a breakthrough, and Steve, Bucky and Peggy face a crisis.

Obadiah steps out of the SUV, peering around in distaste at the dusty, crude tents, the men milling around and turns up his nose at the stench of sweat and horse shit.

One of the men steps forward and extends his arms, “Welcome,” he murmurs, nodding when Obadiah’s gaze flickers to the healed burn on the side of his face. “Compliments of Tony Stark,” he snarls.

Rolling his eyes, Obadiah nods, “If you killed him when you were supposed to, you'd still have a face,” he drawls, already impatient to leave.

“You paid us trinkets to kill a prince,” the man grumbles in return.

“Just...show me the weapon,” Obadiah sighs, shaking his head—the fact that he has to deal with these idiots puts his teeth on edge.

“Come. Leave your guards outside,” the man orders, waving a hand to guide him into the tent. “His escape bore unexpected fruit,” the man explains, leading Obadiah through the tent before stepping aside to reveal the remains of what looks like a suit of armor.

“So this is how he did it,” Obadiah whispers, smiling faintly in amused amazement. The mind on that kid…

“This is only a first crude effort. Stark has perfected his design. He has made a masterpiece of death. A man with a dozen of these can rule all of Asia. And you dream of Stark's throne.”

Obadiah looks up at the man and smirks, biting his tongue for the moment.

“We have a common enemy,” the man explains, “We are still in business. I will give you these designs…” he pauses and smirks at Obadiah, “...as a gift. And in return...I hope you repay me with a gift of iron soldiers.”

Obadiah smirks and clicks the button on the device in his palm, a high frequency sound emitting to temporarily paralyze the man. “This is the only gift you will receive,” he murmurs, “Technology. That's always been your Achilles heel in this part of the world.”

The man gurgles and slumps to the ground and Obadiah clicks off the device. “Don't worry. It will only last for 15 minutes. That's the least of your problems.”

Stepping out into the night he waves a hand at his private security team, “Bring the armour and the rest of it,” he orders, heading for the SUV. “Alright, let’s finish up here,” he calls, stepping into the SUV as gunfire erupts behind him.

As the SUV pulls away he places a call and peers out the window into the night, “Set up Sector 16 underneath the Arc reactor. And I want this dead and masked. Recruit our top engineers. I want a prototype right away.”

Obadiah smirks as he hangs up, with this, he’ll be able to turn the company around and get it back to being profitable. Tony’s given him everything he needs to put the company and his bank account back on the right track.

* * *

Peter smiles weakly as a pair of arms wrap around his waist, sighing lightly as Tony nuzzles into his neck, lips warm and wet against his throat. “Hey, couldn’t sleep?” Tony asks softly, concern in his voice as his lips trail up to Peter’s ear to nibble gently.

“Sorry, just, don’t sleep well sometimes,” Peter admits, voice hoarse and sleepy. He’s definitely tired, but he’s already woke up three times after nightmares and he’s not sure he’s going to be getting any more sleep tonight. He feels bad he’s woken Tony up, that his mind won’t let him rest tonight, but it’s nothing new.

“Hey, don’t apologize, I understand,” Tony whispers, hands pressing flat against Peter’s stomach, rocking him gently in a way that makes Peter smile genuinely. He lets his head fall against Tony’s, sighs happily when Tony presses kisses to his brow. “Can I do anything to make it better?”

“Nah, just, maybe, would you mind holding me?” Peter asks softly, hesitantly. When Tony pulls him closer and hums, kisses his throat, Peter smiles, tears in his eyes. He stays quiet while rain patters against the windows of the apartment, watching it while Tony rocks him, beard scratching pleasantly against his skin while he kisses his throat.

“Sometimes I dream about Vietnam,” he admits quietly, feels it when Tony stiffens against him and then tilts his chin to press a kiss against Peter’s shoulder. “I can smell the blood and gunpowder and hear them screaming, a-and,” he swallows hard, “I can still feel the blood on my hands sometimes,” he whispers, voice quavering, “I hear Jacques saying my name, and I, shit, I can’t tell if it’s real or not.”

Tony makes a soft wounded sound and his hands tighten, pull on Peter, turn him so they’re facing each other and when he sees the tender concern in the older man’s eyes he falls apart, burying his face in Tony’s neck as he sobs, clinging to him desperately, so scared of letting go and falling it makes him weak in the knees.

He barely notices Tony guiding him to the bed, just holds onto him as he’s pulled into Tony’s lap. It takes time for his tears to slow and when they do Tony’s fingers are furrowing through his hair slowly, lips pressed to his temple as he runs his hand over his spine, fingers tracing the knobs of each vertebra. When his pulse settles a little he sits up and wipes at his face, offering Tony a weak smile, “I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice raspy and low.

Tony’s brow furrows and he shakes his head, cups Peter’s cheek and swipes at the remaining wetness beneath his eyes, “No, don’t, you don’t have to apologize for what you went through, what you still go through.” His eyes are sad and it makes Peter’s stomach hurt so he leans into his hand and toys with the fine hairs at the nape of Tony’s neck, wishing he knew what to say. “Will you, will you tell me about him sometime?” Tony asks and he glances up sharply, surprise jolting him.

“You want to hear about Jacques?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yea, he meant a lot to you and I’d like to know more. It doesn’t have to be now, but, someday maybe?” Tony suggests, and Peter can hear the uncertainty, see the hope in his eyes and it means so much to him that Tony wants to know, that he’s trying so hard to make this burden that Peter carries a little lighter.

Peter leans in and kisses him, humming when Tony’s tongue flicks against his lip. “I will, I promise babe.” He hesitates for a moment and smiles softly, shifts so he can sit between Tony’s legs, his feet against Tony’s hips as he toys with the quilt under them. “He uh, he would sing at night, teach us these French songs that were uh,” he laughs ruefully, “really dirty.”

Tony nods and smiles, reaches out to lace their fingers together as Peter keeps talking, the weight in his chest easing for the first time in years.

* * *

Tony stares up at the hologram, stunned speechless. Banner and Cho are just as quiet, staring at the results of their testing with awe.

“You know what this means?” Cho asks quietly, glancing over at him.

Tony grins and blinks back tears, “We have a functional treatment for HIV and AIDS,” he says, voice rough with unshed tears.

Bruce claps a hand on his shoulder and nods, sliding his glasses off to wipe at his eyes, a soft smile on his face.

“We’ve gotta file with the FDA and get testing approval, but my god Tony, if we can get this out within two years, we’ll save millions of lives,” Helen murmurs, running a hand through her hair with a dazed look.

Nodding, Tony scrubs a hand over his mouth and grins, “Hey JARVIS, call Honey Bear.”

“Gladly sir.”

* * *

Rhodey hangs up the phone with numb fingers, all the blood drained out of his face.

“Hon?”

He swallows hard and turns to face Carol, vision blurring as the weight of Tony’s words finally settle in.

“James?”

Her hands are on his face, calling his name and he finally manages a smile, tears rolling down his face as he laughs and pulls her in for a kiss.

“Tony did it...he, uh, he came up with a treatment,” he whispers, voice cracking on the last word, a sob wracking his chest as Carol wraps her arms around him, holding him close as they cling together, tears of joy and relief mingling on their cheeks and lips.

* * *

_Peter stares into the mirror over the sink, gut churning as he tries to come up with a way to tell May and Ben what he’s feeling. What will they even say?_

_“Honey? You okay?”_

_May’s voice sends a shudder over his spine and he swallows down the nervous urge to vomit, splashes water on his face before he unlocks the door and walks out, gives May a weak smile. She frowns and lifts a hand to his forehead, “Baby, you okay? You look flushed,” she murmurs, concern in her voice._

_He shrugs and allows her to guide him to the table, hands knotting together as Ben carries dinner to the table, May chattering away about work, and the whole time all he can think is_ **_they’re going to hate me._ **

_“Peter? Peter? Hon?”_

_He looks up and May and Ben are staring at him, worry and curiosity lining their faces. His mouth falls open and his throat goes dry and then—_

_“I’m bisexual,” he blurts, panic filling him the moment he realizes what he’s just said._

_May and Ben share a look before May gets out of her chair and comes around the table to hug him. Ben smiles softly and leans forward, taking Peter’s hand in his, “We love you Peter, and whoever you love, we just want you to be happy.”_

_It’s only when his vision starts to blur that Peter realizes he’s crying._

* * *

May holds on to Peter’s hand so tight his knuckles have gone white under her grip, their steps muffled as they walk through neatly trimmed grass. As they get closer to their destination, her hand tightens on his until he’s sure his bones are going to turn to dust.

It doesn’t matter though, he can endure it.

For her, he can endure anything.

She quavers for a moment before dropping to her knees, a sob wrenching out of her chest as she reaches for the granite headstone bearing her husband’s name. Peter stands behind her, hand on her shoulder and cries his own tears, silent in his support as the breeze ruffles the petals of the flowers he had planted just a few weeks ago.

He smiles a little, watching them sway, and he thinks wherever Ben is, there’s brown eyed susans and sunshine keeping him company until May joins him someday.

It’s...oddly comforting.

* * *

Steve massages Peggy’s feet, large hands gentle but firm, smiling softly as she moans and drops her head back onto Bucky’s shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

Bucky presses a kiss to her temple, “Little man kicking again?” he asks, dropping a hand to her belly. Peggy nods and slides her hand across the swollen expanse of her belly to lace their fingers together, dragging his hand down to where the baby is currently kicking her bladder like it’s trying out for Manchester United.

“Bloody little demon,” Peggy mutters affectionately, smiling against Bucky’s lips when he kisses her.

Steve grins and presses his thumb into the arch of her foot, holding it there as she arches and groans, limbs turning lax when he presses on, hands crawling up her calves, massaging away the tension lying within the muscles.

When Peggy falls asleep, Bucky carries her to their bed, the two men watching her for a moment before shutting the door and leaving her to rest. Collapsing back on the couch, Steve pulls Bucky into his lap, grinning when the other man wraps his arms around Steve’s neck and leans in for a kiss.

“Sorta miss being able to do this to you,” Bucky murmurs against Steve’s lips, “too big now,” he teases gently. Steve grins and moves, lifting Bucky as he stands, pushing him down onto the couch before sliding into his lap.

Bucky smothers a laugh as Steve leans in and kisses him again, murmuring _punk_ against his plush lips. Steve grins and kisses him harder, fingers furrowing through dark curls.

“Steve?! Bucky!”

The frantic, scared voice of Peggy has them stumbling off the couch and down the hall, panic taking ahold when they see Peggy lurching down the hall, crimson staining the fabric of her pants, a wide eyed look of terror on her face.

“Something’s wrong with the baby,” she gasps and then collapses, eyes rolling back in her head.

* * *

Peter holds Tony’s hand so tightly he’s sure he’s hurting him, but Tony doesn’t say anything or pull away—if anything he grips Peter’s hand harder.

Steve and Bucky are like planets orbiting each other, pacing pathways into the floor, bodies lined with tension and fear. It’s been an hour since they brought Peggy to the hospital and they’ve yet to hear any updates on her condition.

As one hour turns to three Steve and Bucky sit together, hands clasped tightly, faces lined and drawn with exhausted worry. Tony murmurs something about food and presses a kiss to Peter’s cheek before rising and disappearing.

Peter scrubs his hands over his face and shudders, the scent of the hospital reminds him of Ben’s multiple stays, battling his body and his demons until he couldn’t anymore. The coppery tinge of blood is cut sharply with bleach and it makes his stomach turn—it smells like Vietnam.

A hand lands on his shoulder a while later and when he looks up he’s surprised to see MJ, Pepper and Ned flanked by Tony and Happy carrying bags of food.

Steve and Bucky look up, stunned amazement on their faces as their friends join them, sitting vigil together. They spread out the food and eat quietly—there aren’t really words for something like this. When the food is gone Tony and MJ clean up, waving off offers of help from the others.

When Tony retakes his seat by Peter, he lays his hand palm up on Peter’s knee and smiles sadly when Peter laces their fingers together. The waiting is unbearable, exhausting and disheartening.

He rests his head on Tony’s shoulder and closes his eyes, inhales the scent of metal and grease and Chanel cologne—warm and familiar and _Tony_.

He’s not sure how much time passes while he dozes, but eventually a voice in his ear rouses him. He opens his eyes and watches a doctor stride over to them, his brow furrowing as he takes in the crowd of people waiting outside the doors to the neonatal unit.

“Is Mrs. Carter’s husband here?”

Steve and Bucky share a look and then both raise their hands. The doctor stares at them for a moment and then nods, fingers going to his wrist where Peter spots a band of twisted fabric—fabric that’s distinctly the colors of the Pride flag.

After a moment’s hesitation the man drags a chair in front of Steve and Bucky, sitting heavily. He scrubs a hand over his face and then sighs, “Both mother and baby are fine,” he starts, pausing while Steve and Bucky gasp and cling harder together.

“Unfortunately we weren’t able to stop the premature birth. Your son is in the neonatal intensive care unit. I don’t want to scare you, but I do want to be very clear—he is not out of the woods yet. He is ten weeks premature and has lung development issues, jaundice, anemia, and cardiac arrhythmia.”

Steve sobs and covers his face in his hands, “‘S my fault,” he cries, shoulders shaking, “‘s cuz of me!”

Bucky’s face goes white as he wraps his arms around Steve’s shoulders and holds onto him as he sobs. He clears his throat, Adam’s apple working a few times before he can lift his gaze to the confused doctor.

“He uh, had a lot of health issues as a kid,” Bucky explains, “some of the same stuff.”

Clarity washes over the doctor’s face and he reaches out slowly, rests his hand on Steve’s knee, “Sir—”

“Steve,” Bucky clarifies, “I’m James,” he murmurs, sharing a brief smile with the doctor.

“Right, Steve, nothing about your past health has caused these problems. Your son is a premature baby, these issues are to be expected.”

Bucky noses into Steve’s hair, eyes shining with tears, “Hey, c’mon punk, it’s not your fault,” he whispers thickly, “lemme see those beautiful eyes baby.”

Steve shudders and lifts his head slowly, eyes rimmed in red as his chest rises and falls just a bit too fast, sniffling as he wipes large hands over his face and takes a steadying breath. Bucky smiles soft and gentle, fingers curling under Steve’s chin so he can turn his face and press a soft kiss to his lips.

It’s deeply intimate and those gathered look away till it’s over and then both men sit a little straighter and meet the gaze of the doctor.

The man smiles fondly and pats Steve’s knee, “We’ll run tests to look for genetic abnormalities, but for right now we’re focusing on keeping your son alive and getting him stronger. I’m not going to lie to you, this will be a tough road, there will be setbacks and he may even not make it, but we are going to do _everything_ we can to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Steve and Bucky nod, faces pale and drawn with fear and Steve clears his throat, “Can uh, can we see him?” he asks hoarsely.

The doctor shakes his head carefully, “Not yet. We’d like to give him a few more hours to settle. But after that, yes. Skin to skin contact will be crucial, but we do have to limit the amount of movement because he is still so weak.”

Steve clutches Bucky’s hand harder, tears rolling down his face as he nods. “And Peggy?” Bucky asks, voice hoarse and low.

“She’s doing very well. She had preeclampsia and a minor placental abruption—that’s why she went into premature labor.”

“Will she…” Bucky pauses and swallows hard, “would we be able to have more kids?” he asks quietly.

The doctor hesitates for a moment and then nods, “There’s no lasting damage to her reproductive system, but in the future I’d suggest keeping a sharp eye out for any high blood pressure issues. She’d need to be watched carefully through every stage of the pregnancy, and perhaps be on bed rest in the last weeks—should these same issues arise.”

The doctor remains for a few more minutes, answering questions and providing as much reassurance as Peter knows he’s capable of in a situation like this, and once he’s gone the air seems to rush back into the room.

Bucky buries his face in Steve’s neck, crying softly as they cling together and when Peter looks over at MJ and Pepper they too are wrapped together, Pepper’s face pressed to MJ’s hair as they cry together silently.

Ned grabs Peter’s hand and Tony leans his head onto his shoulder and Peter closes his eyes, lashes wet with unshed tears.

It was going to be a long road home for his nephew.


	19. Only the Good Die Young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Obadiah tells Tony a secret, Rhodey gets a new suit, and Peter saves the day

_Peter watches as Ben struggles out of the car, jaw set stubbornly, pain in his every movement. He’d offer a hand but he knows Ben won’t take it, won’t accept what he sees as pity._

_Vietnam has taken so much from him; his skin darkened by his exposure to Agent Orange, his left leg gone from mid thigh down, his lungs burnt and bruised._

_The Medal of Honor Ben received from the President is pinned to his jacket, dangling loosely as Ben finally makes his way to his feet._

_It’s been weeks since he had his left leg removed, since he was given a prosthetic, and Peter knows it’s going to be an even longer road till he’s able to hold down a steady job or get around like he used to._

_He watches as May takes Ben’s elbow and guides him up into their home, steps slow and painstaking._

_He hears her later that night, moving around the kitchen and when he goes out he’s stunned to see her drinking—he’s only ever seen her have a glass of wine on special occasions, never anything harder, and certainly not the whiskey Ben would sip on occasionally._

_Her eyes are exhausted and sad and he doesn’t say anything for a very long time—just sits in silence with her, listening to the grandfather clock in the living room tick and the cars outside pass by._

_A week later he finds Ben slumped on the bathroom floor, prosthetic leg out of reach, a bruise forming on his head from where he’s fallen._

_He holds onto his uncle as tightly as he can while the man sobs and screams hoarsely, his grief and rage filling the tiny room till it feels like he can’t breathe._

_Ben gets a security job at Stark Industries and a few weeks into the job a package arrives at their house—it’s a new prosthetic that’s stronger, more durable and infinitely more comfortable._

_There are still times Peter comes home from school and finds Ben slumped in his recliner, beer in hand, but more and more he can be found outside working on the garden or the motorcycle and Peter begins to relax, to hope._

_He’s offered the chance to go to Vietnam as an imbedded reporter for the Daily Sun and takes it; kisses his aunt goodbye as she cries, shakes Ben’s hand as he remains stoic, accepting the K-Bar that’s pressed into his hand with a demand that Peter bring it back safely._

_It’s the only way Ben can protect him now—to give him this thing that helped cut off his leg when he was bleeding out in the jungle—Peter takes it with a nod, not knowing that it’s going to be the thing that saves his life more times than he can count—and the thing he’ll use to try and end it._

_He traces the letters carved into the handle._

_P A R K E R_

_By the time he returns home the ivory inlay is stained with blood and sweat and grime and even when he’s scrubbed it clean, it’s not the same._

_The Starks die._

_Ben loses his job._

_May finds Ben on the bathroom floor, service pistol in hand._

_They lose their home._

_Peter’s not sure he can remember a time when he was happy._

* * *

There’s a knock at Peter’s door and when he opens it, there’s a box on his landing, his name scrawled in sharpie on the lid. Glancing around cautiously, he frowns and carries it into his apartment, curious about the weight of whatever is inside the box. Cutting through the tape around the lid, he flips it open and then stares, lid slipping numbly from his fingers.

Inside is stacks of folders stuffed full, floppy disks, and a VHS labeled **_TS Ransom_ **. His fingers shake as he lifts the VHS free and stares down at it. He’s still trying to decide what to do when the phone rings, startling him from the daze he’d fallen into.

“Uh, Peter here.”

“Mr. Parker, it is a pleasure to hear your voice.”

“JARVIS?”

“Indeed sir. Do you have a moment?”

“Uh, yea sure. What’s up?”

“Am I correct in assuming that you’ve received my package?”

Peter nods and taps his fingers on the tape, “Yea, looking at it right now. What is all this?” he asks, thinking that maybe he already knows.

“This is the collective evidence against Mr. Stane. I suggest you take your time reading it. May I also suggest sharing this information with Colonel Rhodes, SHIELD, and Miss Potts?”

Peter stares at the contents of the box for a moment before nodding slowly, “That’s a good idea. Would you call them and please ask them to come here?”

“Of course Mr. Parker, right away.”

Peter smiles softly at the cool British voice that’s grown so familiar in the past months, “Thank you JARVIS, you’re a good man.”

“I do not think a non corporeal artificial intelligence can be considered a man, but I appreciate the sentiment nonetheless Mr. Parker. I would like to thank you for taking the time to get to know Mr. Stark and for being a kind and generous partner to him these last months. He has been betrayed by those he loves far too many times, and for a time I feared the same was happening yet again. I can see now that you love him and have only his best interests at heart. Thank you Peter, for being so honorable a man.”

Peter blinks rapidly, throat tight as he struggles to contain his emotions. After a moment he clears his throat and nods, “Thank you JARVIS, that means,” he clears his throat again, “more than you know.”

There’s a moment of silence on the line and if JARVIS were human Peter would think he too was similarly affected by the moment, but then the AI speaks again, offering a brief farewell before the dial tone is echoing in his ear.

It takes a few minutes before feeling returns to his fingers, and then he’s moving, brewing a fresh pot of coffee, pulling cookies out of the pantry that May had pressed on him the last time he’d visited and organizing the files from the box out on his tiny kitchen table.

There’s a knock about a half hour later and when he opens the door he frowns at the man standing on the other side of it. He’s perfectly normal looking, bland even, and for a moment Peter wonders if he’s a Jehovah’s Witness, and then the man shifts and lifts a badge from inside his jacket, the SHIELD emblem emblazoned on the leather.

“Agent Coulson, Phil,” he murmurs, extending his hand to Peter, “You know my supervisor, Agent Carter.”

Peter grins and steps aside, “Welcome Phil, it’s good to meet you,” he murmurs politely, barely getting the door shut before there’s another knock and then it’s a steady flow of people till his apartment is full once more.

It takes multiple pots of coffee and close to seven hours before they wade through all of the intelligence, but when they’re done Pepper is pale and shaken and Peter has to excuse himself to vomit in the privacy of his bathroom. The freckles on his nose stand out against the pasty color of his skin and he sips on a glass of water till his stomach settles and when he looks up at himself in the mirror his jaw firms.

He’s not going to let this stand any longer.

When he heads back out to the living room he looks to Pepper; “Can you get Obadiah to SI?” he asks, waiting for her nod before turning to Coulson, “And can you get a team of agents together to arrest him?”

Coulson nods decisively, “We’ll be ready to go at your word,” he assures Peter.

Rhodey lifts a finger to get Peter’s attention, “What do you need from me?” he asks, lifting a brow.

Peter grins, “I think you’re gonna like what I have in mind,” he replies.

* * *

Tony smiles as his new wireless phone prototype rings, the ID revealing it to be Peter.

He presses the answer button and…

Pain

His veins throb beneath his skin, lungs spamming as he tries to breathe and it feels like his brain is on fire with burning, _blinding_ pain.

“Tony?”

He can hear Peter’s voice, worried and distant.

“Tony, are you there?”

There’s motion beside him and suddenly Obadiah is in his periphery, a smile on his face that Tony’s never seen before.

“Breathe,” Obadiah counsels as he struggles, each breath burning as the reactor in his chest seems to sputter and throb.

“Easy, easy…” Obadiah murmurs; the same soothing tone he’d used when Tony was a kid, crying in his office, in his arms, when Howard had rejected him and smacked him and he’d sought out the comfort of a warm familiar hug.

“You remember this one, right?” he asks, holding up the device for Tony to see and yea, he recalls this one—he’d backdoored with the government to keep it from being used because as he’s discovering, it’s best used for torture.

“It's a shame the government didn't approve. There are so many applications for causing short-term paralysis.”

His body twitches and seizes, lungs contracting as he struggles to breathe and it’s agony, pure and simple. Obadiah slides down on the couch next to him with a smile that makes his already weak heart clench painfully.

“Ah, Tony,” Obadiah sighs, reaching out to twist his head toward the older man. “When I ordered the hit on you—”

His chin twitches incrementally toward Obadiah in shock, drool leaking from the corner of his mouth and the shame of it burns, burns worse than the pain of the sonic taser. Obadiah is pulling something from his briefcase, something with claws and he’s leaning over—

“I was worried that I was killing the golden goose.”

He watches through tears that he has no control over as Obadiah presses the device to his chest and it begins to whir and smoke—the reactor is under assault and his chest feels like it’s going to burst, too full of pain, void of oxygen.

“But, you see it was just…”

The device clicks and he feels it, feels the reactor detaching, feels his heart skipping too fast, the agony of it enough to make him weep but he doesn’t have control over his own body so he can’t even do that—can’t mourn the loss of his family, of his life.

“ _fate_ that you survived it.”

Obadiah lifts the reactor, glowing white—his lifeline, his _heart_ —and grins possessively.

“You had one last golden egg to give,” he murmurs, admiring the reactor, the light playing over his face and for the first time Tony can see that there’s no affection in the way the man looks at him—he’s always been an asset to the man, nothing more, and when he thought Tony had nothing left to give he deemed his asset worthless.

Expendable

Useless

Obadiah hovers over him, larger than life, smirking cruelly, “Did you really think that just because you have an idea, it belongs to you?” he asks tauntingly.

“Your father, he helped to give us the atomic bomb. Now what kind of world would it be today if he was as selfish as you?”

Obadiah smirks and leans in further, “Can I tell you a secret Tony? Your parents didn’t die in a car crash,” he whispers in Tony’s ear, breath hot and repulsive. “Your father refused to use the Project Rebirth Serum again after his failures during the war and I knew we could succeed if we just kept trying.”

Some part of him knows what’s coming, but he doesn’t want to hear it—god, he needs to _move_ to get to his suit, to, to, _stop_ this.

“He was a hindrance—one I had removed. I’m just sorry it had to involve your mother.”

Fury blooms in his veins at the mention of his mother, of the realization that Obadiah was responsible for her death. He gasps for air and tears burn in his eyes and it all means nothing because he’s paralyzed, unable to do more than stare into the eyes of his friend, his family, his murderer.

Obadiah smirks, “I’m glad he didn’t live to see the man you’ve become, to see the _weakness_ that’s ruined you. You’re a disappointment Tony, a liability and fucking queer—I should have had the man who killed your parents finish the job when you were still a kid,” he snarls and then—

Rips the heart right out of him.

He gasps like a fish out of water, pain cracking him open from sternum to pelvis, broken like an egg—his insides weak and on display.

“Oh, it's beautiful,” Obadiah croons as he gasps, dying by inches. “Ah, Tony this is your Ninth Symphony.” He turns toward Tony on the couch, staring avidly at the reactor, “What a masterpiece!”

“Look at that,” he murmurs, holding it up so Tony can see, can see his heart, so fragile and easily broken, in the hands of a traitor. “This is your legacy,” he whispers.

_Is that your legacy?_

He sees dark eyes rimmed by silver glasses, watching him intently.

Yinsen.

_Your life's work in the hands of those murderers._

“The next generation of weapons, with this at its heart.”

_Is that how you want to go out?_

“The weapons that will help steer the world back on course. With the balance of power in our hands. In the _right_ hands.”

_Is this the last act of defiance of the great Tony Stark?_

“I wish you could see my prototype. It's not as...not as _conservative_ as yours,” Obadiah tells him as he packs up, stands over Tony with a rueful smile.

“Too bad you had to involve Parker in this. I would've preferred that he lived so he could write your obituary,” Obadiah taunts him, smirking before he walks away, those broad shoulders that used to be so comforting now the symbol of his demise.

_Or are you going to do something about it?_

* * *

He drags himself into the elevator when he can finally move, pulse racing, clothes drenched in sweat and Peter’s dog tags clinging wetly to his skin as he sucks air like a dying fish, legs shaking as he tries to keep himself upright. JARVIS turns on the lights as he stumbles into his workshop, searching for—

_Proof Tony Stark Has A Heart_

He’s almost there

Collapses

Can’t reach

Can’t breathe

A soft whirring sound draws his blurry gaze upwards to where…

Dum-E holds out the reactor to him with a hopeful chirp.

His fingers slip against the glass and he holds it for a moment, “Good boy,” he manages, rolls to the side and smashes the glass.

He fits the reactor back in with trembling, weak fingers, black spots blurring his vision, the taste of copper flooding his mouth and then—

Footsteps on the stairs

_Rhodey_

Rhodey is here

He rolls to the side and vomits, the taste of death lingering in his throat.

“Are you okay?” Rhodey demands, helping him sit up, hands gentle against him, concern in his deep, warm eyes and Tony sobs out a breath, clutches him for a minute and leans in, sinking into his embrace, forehead against Rhodey’s throat, the familiar embrace shaking him to his core.

“ _Tones_ ,” Rhodey whispers in a voice he hasn’t heard since his mother—since the funeral.

“Where is Peter?” he grates out, the realization of Obadiah’s threat sinking in.

“He's fine. He's with five agents and the head of your security and they’re about to arrest Obadiah.”

Tony shakes his head weakly, “That's not gonna be enough.”

Rhodey helps him to his feet and over to the assembly platform, and for the first time tonight Tony manages a weak grin, “You may wanna take a few steps back.”

The suit begins to assemble around him and Rhodey circles, wide eyed. “That's the coolest thing I've ever seen,” he murmurs.

Tony smirks a litte, “Not bad, huh?” he says quietly. Nods to the platform as he steps down, “Yours is next,” he says without hesitation, smiling genuinely when Rhodey looks at him in shock.

“C’mon we don’t have all night,” he encourages, nudging Rhodey forward with one gauntleted hand. He’d modified the Mark II after its failures and decided that though he wouldn’t give the military full control of the suit, if Rhodey wanted, he’d get one.

He watches as Rhodey holds still, eyes wide as the suit assembles around him, the face plate the last to go—Rhodey’s childlike grin slipping behind it as it closes.

“Let's do it,” he calls, waving a hand.

“You realize I don’t know how to fly this thing?” Rhodey calls, clanking steps behind him.

“You’re the best pilot in the Air Force—it’s like an F-16, but better,” Tony replies lightly, “JARVIS, assist Colonel Platypus please.”

“Of course sir.”

Tony glances back at his best friend and grins behind his faceplate.

“Let’s go Iron Patriot.”

* * *

It’s utter chaos at SI.

Coulson and the agents are—somewhere, Peter’s not sure. All he knows is that Bucky passed him a gun with an order to run as the behemoth suit piloted by Obadiah had chased after them, and now he’s getting a call from Tony on some experimental communications device from SHIELD.

“Peter?”

He sounds...scared.

“Tony?” he gasps, “Oh god, Tony, are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” Tony murmurs, “I’m on my way but you need to get out of there.”

“Obadiah, he's gone insane,” he tells Tony hurriedly, “He built a suit like yours but, but, bigger!”

“I know Pete, just, get outta there, _please,_ ” Tony pleads.

He doesn’t get a chance to reply because the ground behind him buckles, erupts and births forth an iron giant.

“Where do you think _you're_ going?” Obadiah’s voice booms through enhanced speakers.

Peter backs up a few steps, hand reaching slowly for the gun Bucky had given him, unsure that it would do more than piss the man in the suit off.

“So long Mr. Parker,” Obadiah shouts, lifting a gauntlet toward his face, the whirring of a machine gun drawing his wide eyed gaze to the place he’s about to die.

There’s a shout and then a blur of red and gold and Tony crashes into Obadiah, sends them through a concrete and steel barrier ten feet high and out onto the highway beyond. Another suit follows close behind and lands in front of him, pausing for a moment before the faceplate lifts and Rhodey grins at him.

“Man, you weren’t kidding about me enjoying this,” he says, lifting a gauntlet to wiggle his fingers in a wave.

Peter laughs weakly, “Yea, well, maybe now isn’t the time to enjoy?” he says, pointing to where Tony and Obadiah are battling on the streets of New York. “Maybe it’s time to help?”

Rhodey nods and the faceplate shuts; he salutes and is gone a moment later.

* * *

_Make sure you wait till I clear the roof, I'll buy you some time._

They didn’t have anymore time, Peter could see that, even from down here. Tony had done something to the targeting system on Obadiah’s suit, but the man was still up—Rhodey lay immobilized on the highway, unable to move in the dead suit.

“How ironic, Tony!”

Obadiah’s voice booms through the air, taunting and proud, “Trying to free the world of weapons, and you gave it the best one ever!”

“And now I'm gonna kill you with it!”

The blast shatters the glass of the roof and Peter inhales sharply when Tony falls, catches himself, dangling 30 feet above his head.

“You ripped up my targeting system,” Obadiah growls, trying again to aim rockets at Tony’s head.

“Hit the button!” Tony screams down at him, eyes wide and dark and terrified.

No...if he does that while Tony is still up there…

“You told me not to!” he shouts back, wincing as the reactor sparks, overloaded and primed for explosion.

“Hold still, you little prick,” Obadiah hisses, lifting his gauntlet once more.

“Just do it!” Tony shouts, and Peter can see how scared he is, how desperate and he can’t, he can’t do this to Tony...

“You'll die!” he sobs, hand shaking as he reaches for the switch anyway.

“Push it!”

He pushes it.

* * *

“Tony!”

He’s _so_ still; the reactor isn’t lit, and he’s not moving, and god, _god_...he’s killed Tony.

There’s a deep groan from behind him and he turns, amazed to see Obadiah still alive, face half burnt, suit in pieces around him. The older man bares his teeth and lifts his remaining gauntlet, the gun attached pointing at Peter and Tony.

He moves without thinking, pure instinct taking over and three shots ring out.

Obadiah looks surprised as his arm lowers slowly, blood trailing from the corner of his mouth before he collapses forward and falls through the remains of the roof and into the reactor. It sparks and blazes again and Peter covers Tony’s body with his, panting for breath, heart pounding in his ears.

He rests his forehead on Tony’s and feels his cheeks grow wet with his tears.

Warm breath fans his face.

It’s…

He pulls back and watches Tony’s lids flutter, hope building in his chest.

The reactor whirs, glows, soft, barely there, and Tony exhales, opening his eyes slowly.

“ _Peter_ ”

* * *

_“Iron Man_ , that's kinda catchy,” Tony muses as Pepper applies makeup to cover the scrapes and bruises on his face. “It's got a nice ring to it. It's not technically accurate, since it's a gold-titanium alloy, but it's kinda attractive name anyway.”

Peter lifts a brow at him and steps back so Agent Coulson can hand him notecards. “Here is your alibi.”

“Okay.”

“You were on your yacht. We have papers to put you in Avalon all night and sworn statements from 50 of your guests.”

Tony nods and wrinkles his nose, “I was thinking maybe we should say it was just Peter and me, alone on the island,” he suggests, receiving an exasperated look from Pepper and one of mild amusement from Agent Coulson.

“That's what happened. Just read it word for word,” he orders.

He reads them over quickly and lifts his gaze to Coulson. “There's nothing about Stane here,” he says quietly.

“That's been handled. He's on vacation. Small aircraft have such a poor safety record,” Coulson replies lightly, lips curling into a faint smirk and for a moment Tony is genuinely afraid of the man.

That looks doesn’t bode well for anyone who gets in the way of the unassuming man.

He nods slowly, “What about this whole story that it's a body guard? He's my body…?” he trails off and shakes his head, “That's kinda flimsy.”

Coulson outright smirks this time, “This isn't my first rodeo, Mr. Stark.”

Coulson slips out the door and nods at him, “Ninety seconds,” he advises before the door shuts and he’s left with Pepper in the silence.

She adjusts his tie and brushes her fingers over his bruised cheekbone, worry in her seafoam gaze. She lays a hand on his chest and smiles sadly at him, “This changes everything, huh?” she asks softly.

He knows she means it in a less than positive way but he can’t help the smile that crosses his face because everything _has_ changed—and he’s got so much more to do.

* * *

Peter watches from the back of the room as Tony steps up to the podium looking put together and handsome. He catches Tony’s eye in the swell of chaos around them and it’s like everything falls away for a moment—just them, here together.

Tony’s lips quirk and he ducks his chin, glancing at Peter through his lashes and Peter has to turn away or he’s going to laugh—delight bubbling up in his throat.

Tony clears his throat and smiles brightly at the crowd, mask firmly in place now. “It's been a while since I was in front of you, I figure I'll stick to the cards this time,” he jokes, tapping them against the podium.

“There's been speculation that I was involved in the events that occured on a freeway and the rooftop…”

Christine Everheart lifts a hand and cuts him off, “I'm sorry Mr. Stark, but do you honestly expect us to believe that that was a bodyguard in a suit, that conveniently appeared, despite the fact that…”

“I know that it's _confusing…_ ” Tony replies sharply, wrinkling his nose at her in annoyance, “It is one thing to question the official story, and another entirely to make wild accusations or insinuate that I'm a superhero.”

Peter bites his lip against the laugh threatening to escape and shakes his head, warm fondness filling him.

“I never said you're a superhero.”

“You didn't?” Tony asks and Peter can begin to see some of his confident mask slip. “Well, good, because that would be outlandish and…”

Tony sighs and meets Peter’s gaze. “...fantastic.”

Peter lifts a brow at him and Tony shifts in place before continuing.

“I'm just not the hero type, clearly. With this...laundry list of character defects and all the mistakes I've made, largely in public.”

Rhodey rolls his eyes and steps over, “Just stick to the cards,” he whispers, barely loud enough for the mikes to catch it.

“Yeah, okay,” Tony nods, lifting the cards up and staring at them. “The truth is…”

Peter knows what’s going to happen, knows what he’s going to say and—

“I am Iron Man.”

The room erupts in chaos and Tony looks straight at Peter and grins.


	20. Paris, Or Wherever We Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tony and Peter live happily ever after

Tony grins as little feet slap against the hard floors of the penthouse and he spins, opens his arms and lifts Grant high into the air so he shrieks and giggles and spreads his arms like he’s flying.

“Uncle Tony! Faster, faster!”

Tony laughs and spins faster, till they’re both dizzy and stumbling, collapsing to the ground together.

“Can we go flying for real?” Grant asks hopefully, dark brown eyes peering up at Tony hopefully from where he’s laying on Tony’s stomach.

Tony pets a hand through his dark curls and nods, “Sure kiddo,” he agrees, laughing when Grant squeals in delight, the laugh turning to a grunt when Grant launches himself off of Tony as Peter rounds the corner.

“Uncle Peep! Uncle Tony said we could _fly_!” he shouts, throwing himself into Peter’s arms.

Peter grins and hefts the boy onto his hip, “Did he now? Well, how about some breakfast first?” he suggests.

“Pamcakes?” Grant asks hopefully—his little boy mispronunciations endearing in a way that makes Tony’s heart lurch.

Peter nods and meets Tony’s warm gaze.

“Yea, pamcakes with chocolate chips?” he suggests and Grant squeals and wriggles, jumps free to run back over to Tony, bowling him over with his tiny but solid little body.

Tony stands and sweeps him up, shifting him so when he leans in for a kiss from Peter the little boy isn’t squished between them.

“Morning,” he murmurs softly, smiling against Peter’s lips.

Peter winds an arm around his waist and leans his head on Tony’s shoulder, lifting a hand to toy with Grant’s dark curls, smiling softly.

The young boy smiles at him and rests his head on Tony’s other shoulder and it, it makes his chest ache—he didn’t know it was possible to be this happy.

The elevator doors open and their sweet moment is broken by the arrival of their friends and family. Grant shouts happily and jumps down from Tony’s arms to race over to his parents, babbling happily and in great detail about the amazing weekend he’s had with Uncle Tony and Uncle Peep.

Bucky, Steve and Peggy listen intently, nodding and asking questions, keeping the young boy distracted so Peter and Tony can make breakfast.

Rhodey and Carol show up not long after, followed by Pepper and MJ.

“We should just buy a farm with as many eggs as we go through feeding this crew,” Tony murmurs to Peter, his hand sliding along his lower back as he passes by with peppers for the quiche.

Peter grins and leans over for a kiss, “You love it,” he murmurs and well, yea, Tony can’t deny that.

The meal is loud and chaotic and perfect—filled with laughter and jokes and smiles and Tony has to excuse himself under the pretense of needing coffee so he can take a moment to wipe away the tears that have fallen.

Arms wrap around his waist from behind and lips press to his neck.

“You ok?”

He nods slowly, “Yea, just...didn’t have a lot of this growing up,” he murmurs.

Laughter

Fun

Happiness

It’s all so new.

Peter kisses his neck and smiles into his skin, “Our kids will always have this,” he replies and Tony has to close his eyes, throat working hard as he lets that sink in.

_Our kids_

_Kids_

_Ours_

**_Mine_ **

God, he can’t wait.

* * *

Peter peers out the window at the city sprawling before them, watching as it rains over Paris, the Eiffel Tower glowing in the distance, the streets bright down far below.

“I love this view,” he murmurs, fingers reaching out to brush the rain from the petals of the flowers in the window box.

“Me too,” Tony replies with such adoration that Peter turns his head and finds Tony looking not at the view out the window, but at him.

Shaking his head he rolls his eyes but holds out a hand, smiling as Tony takes it and pushes up behind him, arms around his waist, lips on his bare shoulder and he can feel where his dog tags hanging around Tony’s neck press into the skin of his back.

“You’re so sappy,” he murmurs to Tony, all fondness.

Tony smirks and nips gently at his shoulder. “It’s your fault,” he says accusingly, soothes it with a kiss. “The view out there is alright, but it’s nothing compared to what I have right here in my arms.”

Peter’s heart lurches into his throat and he has to blink back tears—turns his face toward Tony for a kiss and then just stays there, breathing together, quiet and still and perfect.

* * *

A shrill cry breaks the air and a moment later another joins it. Peter and Tony are up, lurching toward the nursery, eyes glazed with sleep and limbs heavy.

Peter bends down and lifts Maria out of her crib, sways with her gently as he goes to heat up bottles. Tony rocks Ben gently, humming a lullaby, one large hand spanning the tiny back, soothing and soft.

Peter smiles sleepily at him and hands over a bottle and they sink gratefully into their rocking chairs, watching with tired awe as their children eat and then fall asleep again.

The twins do everything together—sleep, eat, cry—and it’s possibly the most challenging thing Tony has ever done and he’s sure 87.3% of the time that he’s going to fuck them up or hurt them somehow without meaning to, but Peter is there to remind him that those worries make him a good father—far better than his own was.

They curl back up in bed together, too tired for more than a weak kiss and then Peter is spooning him and he can’t help the smile that warms his tired face at being so loved by this incredible man.

They can’t get married or adopt children from most places, but for now, this is enough.

* * *

Peter leans into Tony as May laughs and plays with the kids, joy removing some of the age and exhaustion from around her eyes.

People comment on their family; on Maria and Ben’s dark skin, on the fact that they have two dads, on Tony’s past indiscretions and wild youth, on his role as Iron Man….

It’s hard.

May laughs and tickles Maria, flailing as the siblings work together to tackle her to the ground and tickle in retaliation.

He smiles softly—all the difficulties pale in comparison to this—to their family. He’d do anything to keep it safe, just as he knows Tony would.

Turning, he brushes a kiss against Tony’s graying hair, closing his eyes to breathe in the familiar scent of shop grease and metal shavings and Chanel cologne.

A smile forms on his lips.

* * *

The cure comes too late for too many, but more have been kept alive by the treatment Tony developed nearly a decade ago, and its given Rhodey and Carol time to advance their careers, grow their family with a rambunctious golden retriever named Hunter and train a whole new generation of fighter pilots.

He’s awarded the Medal of Freedom for his work in ending the AIDS crisis and curing the deadliest disease in modern history and stands proudly, tears in his eyes as his family watches from the audience.

* * *

Peter wins the Pulitzer for his reporting on Obadiah and his under the table dealings, prints the pictures of the people SI’s weapons killed and follows it with photos of Iron Man rescuing children from the rubble of destroyed homes in Gulmira and surrounding villages.

He writes about Ho Yinsen; about his three children and wife, all killed by the Ten Rings.

He writes about the brave man who stood up to terrorists, saved Tony Stark and gave his life to make sure that the man whose weapons had been used to kill his family would be able to get free.

He writes and writes and eventually, the world sees the man he loves for what he is; a hero.

* * *

  
  


It’s a quiet ceremony—well, not quiet with Maria, Ben, Grant and Sarah running around and Hunter barking his head off as they chase him—but it’s perfect anyway.

Pepper officiates and Tony can’t help the tears that fall when he finally, _finally_ gets to call Peter his husband.

* * *

“The view is a little different,” Peter murmurs, peering out the window at the Eiffel Tower, the streets below buzzing with activity, the city never really sleeping, always pulsing with life and light.

Tony’s arms are thinner now, weaker, but still strong enough to wrap tightly around his waist and hold onto him.

“As long as it’s with you, I don’t care about the view,” Tony murmurs in his ear and Peter smiles. “Paris or wherever we are, all that matters is you.”

“Sap.”

“You love me.”

Peter turns and kisses him, smiling softly.

“I love you.”

* * *

“Miss Maria I do apologize, but there is currently an invasion of robots in Manhattan.”

Maria sighs at JARVIS’s ill timed interruption and shoots Grant a smile, “Time to go,” she murmurs, leaning over for a kiss. They part quickly, the nanites of her suit flowing out to cover her athletic form from head to toe—face left bare as she watches Grant pull on his boots and then sling his shield over his back.

He’d taken the mantle of Captain America after she had created the shield for him, had given it to him with trembling hands, hoping he understood it for what it was—her love and desire to keep him safe.

She’s never been anything other than Iron Woman—the mantle handed down from her father, long gone now, but she knows people still take hope from her as they did when he wore the suit.

It’s the family business for all of them—saving people, protecting the world.

She brushes her fingers against the dog tags that lie beneath her suit, bearing the name of her father; passed down by her dad when he had gotten too old to maneuver the suit—something to keep them with her, always.

She and Grant share a smile and hurry out to the landing pad, the quinjet thrumming with life, waiting to carry them to their next mission.

Ben and Sarah aren’t far behind—Ben in his red and blue Spider-Man outfit, Sarah in the sleek black garb of the Widow.

“What’s the mission?” Ben asks, grinning at his sister.

“Doombots in Manhattan.”

“Sounds fun.”

Grant rolls his eyes and smiles over his shoulder as he heads for the quinjet, “Lets go Avengers—assemble!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it to the end!! I'm so glad you gave this story a read and I couldn't have done it without all your comments and kudos!!
> 
> I have some notes on the story for you--the children of Tony and Peter were conceived through IVF using a black egg donor; the usage of IVF became popular in the late 80's. They are named Maria May Stark and Benjamin Edwin Stark. Bucky, Steve and Peggy's children are Grant Anthony-James Carter and Sarah Margaret Carter. The following are links where you can learn more about the deadly outbreak of HIV in New York and the devastation it wrought on the gay community, HIV-AIDS symptoms, and military policy on members with HIV-AIDS.
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timeline_of_HIV/AIDS  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zidovudine  
> https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/hiv-aids/symptoms-causes/syc-20373524  
> https://www.nbcnews.com/feature/nbc-out/army-sergeant-sues-military-discrimination-over-outdated-hiv-policy-n878741
> 
> In case you missed it, Howard is NOT Tony's biological father--the man Maria was talking to in ch16 --Antonio--is.


End file.
